Unnamed sequel
by Nightrae
Summary: 7: The man that initially started the entire conflict between the immortal ancestors has awoken from his 15 centuries of slumber, ready to accelerate the unavoidable end of all immortality. Follow Selene and Michael as the war turns to a whole new level.
1. Delusive Confidentiality

'_Underworld'—Motion Picture Photography © 2003, Lakeshore Entertainment Group LLC, All Rights Reserved. Means that I don't own a damn thing._

_- - - - -_

_Budapest, July 28th 2003—the end of a bloody epoch, and collaterally the commencement of a new and more intricate one. Both lycan and vampire will undergo a decisive intervention by the origin itself._

"_**Digging into the past is forbidden for a reason."**_

— _Kraven_

**UNDERWORLD: ARCANUM**

**PART ONE**

* * *

DELUSIVE CONFIDENTIALITY

* * *

The rain poured down incessantly, pounding against the asphalt. Although impenetrable clouds obscured the night sky completely, the running Death Dealer knew the myriad beams of lunar light tried to find a way through, as though wanting to show their extraordinary brilliance. Or maybe to admonish the vampires of what horrible things they formerly could implicate. Humans always thought the moon to be a symbol of romance, but for vampires, however, it reminded them of a raging war that had been predominant for centuries. A war between the savage lycans and the sybaritic vampires. Both breeds detested each other—wanted to exterminate the other. However, if one was to believe the old myths, lycans and vampires had a common ancestor. And if it was one thing this Death Dealer abhorred, it was just that: a common ancestor—one and the same breed.

Not three weeks ago, the reason of the war was simple: to defeat the other breed. After the well-known milestone, however, the purpose had become much more intricate. Newly, it was confirmed that some lycans and vampires had allied themselves. The reason remained unknown. Unlike before, you could no longer tell who was on which side—who would kill you, or who would protect you. There was especially one case that Blake had in mind. _A great vampire_, he thought disdainfully,_ who is in league with the lycans._ Or at least he looked like a vampire … Although being hunted by an annoying perplexity, he knew it was an immoral act nevertheless, flinching in repulsion at the thought. _The disunion is badly enough as it is_.

His severe black coat drenched from the rain, Blake hurried across the empty street located on the outskirts of northern Pest. He glanced in both directions. _Coast clear_, he thought deliberately. This was a strictly esoteric engagement; no human—let alone lycan­—could know about this. He didn't dare to think of the implications if an exposure were to happen.

In the adjacent park, leaves of the many birches fluttered ardently in the imposing wind, even the tree trunks moved ominously. Today's newspaper lay glued to the wet asphalt, flipping from page to page with fervent frequency. The violent storm had been raging constantly for two days, now. Well known for his intuition, Blake had a feeling that it wasn't planning to cease just yet, either.

An imposing structure loomed before him. It was impressive concerning size, but qualitatively speaking, the edifice was dilapidated to the utmost. Wet moss had found the brick wall quite comfortable—especially the deep cracks in it—, and was now sprawled all over it.

Blake shifted his gaze to the door in front of him. Bristling splinters of wood gave a sense of filthiness, and the drenched vampire suddenly felt uninvited. But he knew this was the place. He glanced at his watch. _Damn!_ Realizing he was delayed, he flung the door open and rushed in, preparing for a long tirade about his lack of punctiliousness. That was rather hard, though, when you were about to face a leader who was feared and respected because of his notorious inclemency.

Obscure darkness environed Blake. Numerous candlesticks were mounted on the walls, environing him with vivid shadows. A set of stairs spiraled upward to the second floor, where the meeting was held. Strangely, the late vampire couldn't hear anything. _I know the engagement is confidential, _he thought, eyeing the shadowy place with suspicion, _but there should be some noise nonetheless …_ Slowly strolling across the concrete floor, Blake narrowed his eyes and carefully took a firm grasp about his modified glock pistol.

"No reason for it, friend," a voice said behind him.

Blake twisted his head in alarm and raised his gun, ready to pull the trigger. A man clad in an oriental snug jacket stepped out from the shadows, his facial features partially exposed by the flickering illumination. A set of black whiskers ran down his cheeks, contrasting clearly with his otherwise ivory features. One of his azure eyes was hidden behind a tuft of wavy black hair.

"Gabriel," Blake said with a deliberate sigh of relief, lowering his gun.

The Death Dealer curved an acknowledging grin. "It's good to see you again," he said, patting his comrade's shoulder. "By reason of an unwanted intervention by the lycans, Cain, though reluctant, had to postpone our engagement. Reluctant because Mason had accentuated the importance of this gathering on beforehand. I knew you were late, so I decided I'd wait here and inform you about what had happened."

An irritating drop of rain, coming from Blake's soaked hair, trickled slowly down his nose. While holstering his pistol, he wondered how the barbaric beasts could have known about an arrangement of such confidentiality.

As if reading his mind, Gabriel told him sternly: "They say the lycans have spies—highly efficient ones—that have been 'visiting' our hideaway … and not just once, friend! Unfortunately, the reason why we haven't sensed a trifle of suspicion remains unsolved."

_Bloody hell_, Blake thought. While he was at the hideout, believing he was safe for the time being, damn lycanthropes—most likely in their humanoid form—had been lurking in the shadowy corners with appalling cunningness …

_Wait, something's not right here_, Blake reflected. "But, stealth does not accord with a lycan's nature. It never was and never will be."

Gabriel crossed his arms and glanced to his left. The aggressive rain pelted against the fragile windows, ready to shatter them any moment. "We've already contemplated that, and you are right; there exists a discordance."

"And what says our leader?"

"That they are obligated to redeem themselves for their scornful sin. With their blood, and their death."

Uncomfortable silence fell upon them. Blake should have been satisfied by this compelling compensation; by now, his tongue should have grazed his razor-sharp fangs in gratification. But something disturbed him, perhaps a dawning inconsequence. Grazing his stubbles, Blake looked around inquisitively. "What happened here?"

The other vampire didn't seem surprised by the sudden change of subject. "As instructed, we held the meeting upstairs," he informed, indicating with his head. "Cain had just began the introduction when series of thumps could be heard from above, followed by synchronized deep roars." He eyed upwards for a moment. "Fully transformed lycan beasts with uncompromising intent had landed on top of this building." Passing Blake, Gabriel strolled leisurely to the other side of the locus, next to a dust-covered oak table. He took off his glove and lightly brushed his finger along the surface of the table.

Turning around, Blake asked impatiently: "Then what?"

The other Death Dealer continued his nimble grazing. "We fled, of course. But when we reached the hallway—which now is right above us—, the wolfen beasts came crashing through the windows and blocked our escape route. The bastards approached us slowly, just for the sake of anguish. They knew they had us outnumbered."

Blake did not like the sound of this. A pack of transformed lycanthropes were not to be taken likely. The Death Dealer feared the worst.

"Luckily," Gabriel continued, "Cain knew of a passage that led to the roof. He drew his flambergé and ordered us to run for it and report to Mason, while he would detain our enemy as long as he could. We protested, but Cain stood there with unrelenting firmness, knowing that the silence treatment always worked. Every one of us knew that no convincement existed at this point, and so we turned tail." Gabriel's nimble brushing had now been replaced with coarse scraping.

"Then why are you still here?" Blake asked, his voice clearly pervaded with curiosity. His companion's voice, on the other hand, intensified with rigor.

"Elementary—I disobeyed orders. I followed the others up to the roof, but when they plunged from the rooftop and into darkness, I didn't stick to my guns. I couldn't. Cain was down there, fighting a whole pack of ferocious lycans on his own. It would be an encounter with certain death. So, I ran down the stairs, ready as ever to enter the battle …"

Gabriel ceased to talk for an instant. _Probably sifting through his thoughts_, Blake concluded, and thus decided not to interrupt him. Only seconds later, he was startled to see the other Death Dealer flip about with remarkable swiftness.

"But no lycan was there, and nor was Cain! Only the thousands pieces of broken glass and the tracks—brutally dug into the floor—proved the lycans' quite recently presence. Our enemy was undoubtedly superior, but no battle, regardless of combatants, can be settled this fast. Nor can such a battle end without a single trail of blood. Yes," he whispered gloomily as he saw Blake's shocked face, "I did neither perceive nor see any blood—not a single blotch! If one of those uncultivated brutes _were_ pierced, I would definitely have perceived that disdainful smell. You know how sickening it is, friend."

Blake nodded to show his consent. The blood of a lycan was never meant to please a vampire's lust for the red fluid, but rather for pure revenge.

"I am not sure how," Gabriel proceeded, "but somehow I knew our enemy wasn't vicinal anymore. Though, in spite of my certainty, I still wielded my shotgun—just in case. Whilst I scrutinized one of the rooms to guarantee securement, I remembered your absence during the secret gathering. I needed to see if you'd eventually arrive, because I was entrusted the mandate of giving a full report on this ordeal to our leader. Who I doubt, by the way, will be pleased," he added wryly. "And, if I waited for you, I'd prevent unnecessary anxiety, as well—thus, killing two birds with one stone."

Blake appreciated his companion's decision and was glad to have him within his presence. He emitted a slight smile to acknowledge that. But it quickly vanished, however, as he noticed Gabriel's indicative finger, beckoning for him to come closer. The Death Dealer did so.

"_How_ the lycans knew of this meeting may be unclear to us," Gabriel said. "But it is quite evident _who_ sent those lycans here. I assume you know?" he asked, even though he already knew the content of Blake's reply. He tapped on the oak table with his finger.

Blake glanced down at the furniture, which was unquestionably in disrepair, and gave a stern nod, proving that Gabriel's assumption was correct. "We're short on time," he said decisively. "We have to report to Mason right away."

After their departure, the letters formed in the filmed dust by the Death Dealer's finger were still easy to decipher, and would remain in the same state for a long time to come. It was not the most elaborate work of calligraphy, but made it all the more perceptible, as if to symbolize the simplicity of logic.

_Marcus_.


	2. The Terminal Awakening

Author's note: Okay, I was nearly done with this chapter when I published "Delusive Confidentiality", and that's the sole reason why "The Terminal Awakening" was this consecutive. I'll try to update this fan fiction as often as I can—if you readers are interested, that is. However, it will not be updated within such small intervals like it was this time.

Great thanks to both Aiel and LiRA for giving me their support, which undoubtedly gives me the urge to keep writing. Be kind and write more of them. :)

-

* * *

THE TERMINAL AWAKENING

* * *

Two Elders had been murdered consecutively. _Two!_ Mason winced in distress. This woefully reminded him of the outset of the twentieth century—in 1904, if he was to be exact. Nicholas, the first sovereign and the one who implemented the Chain back in the seventh century, had been killed—betrayed by one of his own breed. Just like Viktor. _That is if Caleb is telling the truth_, Mason thought with suspicion. Although Selene had opposed the strict orders and awakened Viktor ahead of schedule, he could not envisage the female Death Dealer as a cold-blooded, treacherous killer. The rumors simply had to be false. Unfortunately, no vampire had been able to scrutinize the main chamber where Selene, according to Caleb, had sliced Viktor's head in twain; the feral lycan beasts had constellated within the murky locus, defending their dead leader, Lucian, whose demise was verified. If the Death Dealers so much as tried to approach the area, the werewolves bayed the attempters, showing no mercy.

Both breeds were deprived of their respective leaders that night, and therefore were in need of reestablishment. If the vampires had proceeded with their assault, the outcome would be decided with indisputable randomness. They could just as well roll a dice and let it decide the consequence. Thus, the withdrawal was a fact; neither of the breeds wanted victory on account of happenstance.

"They have left the main hall," one of his Death Dealers informed devotedly as he entered Mason's room. "The assembly can commence."

Mason nodded in apprehension. "I'll be right down. Tell Isaac he can begin the presentation as he sees fit."

The Death Dealer hit his stride and left his commander alone.

As soon as he was certain that he was left undisturbed, Mason delved his head into his hands depressively. He was unaccustomed to the turmoil, which intensified in step with the seconds that ticked away. Ordoghaz was about to enter a panic-stricken state, and their seemingly impervious superiority over the lycanthropes had been abruptly torn into nonexistence. The mansion was in convulsion—a condition they had to be freed of if they wished to continue their being. And Mason knew who their liberator was. _He_ was the sole alternative—the one hope they had. And the Death Dealer could only pray that the newly formed council would show accordance.

-

A blonde vampiress had been confined to her boudoir as though she was a little brat who had defied orders. _What is all this tumult?_ she thought perplexedly. Did it have something to do with Viktor's death? _Or is Kraven's perfidy today's topic? Or perhaps both? I wouldn't be surprised if it was Kraven who murdered Viktor, not Selene. That despicable vermin …_ The vampiress was filled with avid ire. Too many times had the damn traitor humiliated and oppressed her in other's presence. No one seemed to cherish her—or respect her, even. And that rat of an ex-regent was the one that started it all. She writhed in pain as she slammed a clinched fist against the adjacent birch table, the remedies on top of it quivering, perhaps apprehensively, when the low-pitched thud banged across the room. Her moan turned to a slight gasp, violet orbs protuberating, as she became cognizant of the uncommonness of her reaction. She lurched out of the gilded chair, creating a most dissatisfying screech. _W—what is happening to me? _she wondered anxiously and strode to the window in an unsteady manner.

Fuscous water ran down the glass in torrents, blurring the alfresco beech trees beyond concreteness. Shutting her eyelids, she exhaled a whimper. _I've … I've changed_, she grasped. And she knew fully well why. _What good is an immortal existence if your life is solely pervaded with disgrace and servitude …?_

The heavy suspiration ceased, and brumous silence descended upon her while she thoroughly sifted through her chaotic thoughts, desperately trying to find her purpose.

-

The sound of footfalls reechoed against the perpendicular walls as Mason and his cohorts stepped through the hallway in a steady pace. Formerly being answerable for tactics and warfare, the Death Dealers were now compelled to form a temporary council, as well. Feeling a huge amount of tension, the leader of the Death Dealers sighed reluctantly. He didn't want to manifest his despair; he wished he could become as relentless and conclusive as Kahn, his prior superior. Kahn's death, which had been untimely and unjust, filled Mason with grief nearly beyond capacity. He remembered how much the murderers had exasperated him, and he recalled each and every silver bullet … scorching perniciously from the muzzle of his gun and piercing the lycans' hirsute skin. He remembered blood spouting, thunderous roars and heavy thumps as they had fallen to the mucky ground. It was gratifying, but did not redeem the deprivation of a great leader—a great man.

Mason, along with his tetrad of Death Dealers, had reached the end of the hallway. Incoherent voices murmured from the adjacent room. Without hesitation, he raised his arm and flung the door open, maintaining his unvarying pace. A great hall imbued with architecture from the English-Gothic times towered before him.

"Sorry I'm late," Mason said and quickly began to find himself a chair. That fortunately proved to be no nuisance; his group of Death Dealers had reserved a seat for him. The council gave him ambiguous looks as he reclined on the thoroughly engilded chair. Drawing off his black leather gloves, he placed them on the table next to him. "Proceed," he ordered firmly.

-

The imposing storm had almost dissipated, the mild raindrops lightly tapping on the filthy window that separated Erika from the outside world. _The world of freedom and independence_, she thought moonily. She never really considered it as an alternative to Ordoghaz, which over the last years had analogously reminded her of severe confinement. She was a part of the vampire sybarites, and their tedious lives were entirely permeated by indulgences and luxury. Perhaps an interesting way of living, but collaterally boring and monotone. If one enjoyed such a life, like most of the vampire sophisticates seemed to do, Erika had to concede that the never-ending parties inside the mansion would most certainly be lovely. She _had_ liked it, in fact, but now it had grown wearisome. And the consciousness of knowing that she once could have been released from this prison aggravated her. The only obstacle was an unrelenting barrier of egoism. _I could have been liberated from this dull life if that bloody cur had accepted our union._

She turned around and leaned pensively against the window. The chilly glass blazed her alabaster skin. She didn't seem to perceive the burning sensation, however; her eyes were fixed on an arbitrary spot on the fuscous parquet, apparently lost in thought.

_If he cannot accept our union_, she deduced,_ then why should I accept his selfish disposition? Why should I make no bones about the demotion I've undergone ever since my infatuation?_

Erika's brows furrowed, her beauteous face distorting into an ominous countenance. Avid orbs, turning from violet to azure, began to blaze with luminous ardency. Glancing down at her hands, the vampiress witnessed her fingernails elongating into deadly sharp talons that seemed to be able to rend granite apart. She flurried about and glared at her vague reflection in the mucky window. Her light-blue eyes were peeled open, emphasizing her pale features. Growling threateningly, Erika exposed pernicious fangs. The entire reflection gleamed with purpose.

_My love, it is high time that you redeemed for your treachery._

-

"As we all know and unfortunately experienced during our intrusion, the lycans clustered and protected the deceased Lucian—whose death, by the way, is now substantiated, as opposed to Kraven's endless fables." Isaac's voice became severe as he mentioned the traitor's name. The grim vocalization contrasted greatly with his entire mild appearance. As did his black apparel, which was partially gilded with intricate markings running down his back and along his arms. No one would initially think that he was the captain of the Death Dealers, his countenance implying genuine lenience. But Mason had seen what Isaac was capable of, which all the more proved that looks could be deceiving.

"And now," Isaac accentuated. "Now, two of our sovereigns are dead! One brutally killed by our enemy, and the other _murdered _by one of his own!" he exclaimed furiously, spitting out the words. The perspiration, wetting his forehead, glinted in the fluorescent light. There was a moment of utter quiescence in the main hall, every member of the council indirectly showing reverence towards the dead Elders.

Mason didn't like Isaac's accusative tone. No concrete proof had been found, the few words from Caleb's mouth being the only so-called evidence. The leader of the Death Dealers had never actually liked that vampire. Caleb was priorly one of Soren's men, and Soren himself was the one taking orders from Kraven. _That immoral scum of a vampire_, he thought indignantly. Mason was actually glad that Soren was dead. The janissary had not been much of a reliable person, and his minions, Mason conceived, could impossibly be much better.

Isaac shattered the silence. "Selene didn't just liquidate Viktor, the oldest and strongest of us all; she is together with a lycan beast, plotting a conspiracy against us as we speak!"

_Manipulative, are we?_ Mason smirked. He glanced at one of his cohorts, Blake, who exposed his opinion of Isaac's speech with a fitting snort. No one except Mason seemed to notice it, however.

"Condemning herself to death was apparently not enough for this treasonous vampiress," the Death Dealer captain continued, his eyes contracting. "At present time, there are two traitors out there,"—he pointed toward the window—"who are alive and well. And they shall be forced to compensate for their abominable deceit!"

Stemmed vessels were raised in the air as the entire audience shouted in agreement. Well, not all of them. Mason didn't like this—at all. He consorted that Kraven deserved an early demise, but he had a hard time believing Selene was just as much a villain—if not even more wicked than the ex-regent. _After all, _why_ would she kill Viktor?_ the Death Dealer asked himself. _What could her purpose possibly be?_ No, he didn't believe it—he couldn't. If a day would come when the unambiguous evidence lay before him, he would of course reconsider. But, at this juncture he found the thought to be too irrational.

"Now." Isaac's expression had become noticeably sterner as his introduction reached an end. The meeting was now entering a phase where the council members were to proclaim their respective opinions.

"The lycans are more in number than we initially thought, and the end of the war perhaps doesn't seem imminent anymore," Isaac predicted grimly. "However. We have a great and powerful Elder slumbering in the dark crypts of our mansion—an Elder that will give us an advantage on account of his determined and merciless disposition. An Elder that will help us exterminate traitors and lycanthropes alike!" Ardent excitement ignited a vivid fire in the speaker's eyes. "I strongly advice you all to show accordance when I say that the key to our survival, and our revenge, lies directly beneath us—on the lowest level of Ordoghaz. Now, let us perform the last Awakening of our time. Let us revenge the inopportune deaths of Amelia and Viktor. Dear members of the council, let us awaken lord Marcus!"

-

A dusky double door creaked open, permitting rays of vivid light to pour inside the obscure room, slightly kindling the Byzantine patterns running along the dado. The otherwise dull plaster walls were adorned with perpendicular columns—accentuating the delicate verticality—and the orthogonal, figural cornices crowned the temporarily desolate dojo. It was however Spartanly furnished in comparison to the other epicurean rooms located downstairs.

This was the second time Erika had visited this part of Ordoghaz. The first time, she had compliantly done Kraven a great favor; she stole one of Kahn's new inventions—ammo containing silver nitrate. Shutting her eyes, the blonde chambermaid shook her head in disappointment. _How could I be so naïve? Why would he become more generous and mild if I did him this favor? _Kraven had known all the way that she would do anything for him. Anything. And he had, without an ounce of hesitation, used her—manipulated her deviously.

Bulging with indignation, Erika efficiently ruptured a dark fir door leading to Kahn's snug place, where the prior leader of the Death Dealers had cozily repaired, concocted and created all types of ordnance—ranging from semi-automatics to silver grenades. Numerous wooden slivers were sprawled across the concrete floor, proving the rustic condition of the door. _Now_, she thought cunningly, _where to find the most effective article …_

Erika didn't dare turn the lights on. Even though the council was gathered, it was still plausible that a Death Dealer might come in and expose her thievery. _Well, not exactly thievery_, she pointed out wryly. She didn't want to call it borrowing either. _No, I'm simply just … offering them a bit of help_. Yes, an offer—that's what it was. She smirked passionately, the dry conclusion seemingly gratifying her.

Several weapon racks hung on the dimly lit plaster walls. In a sedate manner, the chambermaid strolled parallel to the stands, inspecting each and every weapon displayed. They were all very fascinating, but a long and slim sword in the corner had especially captivated her. She read the bronze sign placed above it. _The Nuit Noire Rapier, an unforgiving rapier in cruel hands. Forged in 1389 by the french. 44 inches, overlaid with silver. _Grasping the black hilt of the sword and removing the massive article from the mortar pedestal, Erika began to quiver slightly. She was not terrified, however; the trembling reaction solely implied excitement. _Most adequate_, she thought with satisfaction White, pointy fangs were bared as the vampiress beamed thoroughly. She glared at its alluring entirety anew, then scabbering it, she continued to scrutinize her environments—this time the miscellaneous furnishing that was desperately trying to breathe life to the tedious local. Not seeing anything more of particular interest, she was about to turn on her heel. But just before, she noticed an oak closet, considerably subdued by the feeble illumination. The servant—ex-servant—turned grave as she walked to the cabinet. She observed the complex impressions tangled into the oak. Directly beneath a snarled mass was an engraved angel with his arms extended in the air. Considering his posture, the winged figure seemed to be exhibiting absolute devotion towards the suspended, tangled element.

_The angle of Death_.

A keyhole was amid the confusing mass. The gilded key was already inserted, sparing Erika the vexation. She rotated the key and opened the closet door. The sight was beyond her expectations. _It is as if someone arranged this plan for me on beforehand!_ The blonde vampiress found herself vis-à-vis several black trench coats. Amongst them were various garments, but she particularly noted an armless blouse, snug, glossy trousers, a couple of burnished boots—all of which evidently inspired by the English-Gothic style back in the 14th century. And on top of the lowermost shelf she found … a clip of ammo. Erika discerned a slight deviation about this ammo, however. With burning luster, a purplish fluid radiated from the rounds, making her violet eyes burn. _What is this?_ she winced, twitching her eyes as she covered the radiation with her hands. _Is it … fluid daylight?_ Being merely a humble chambermaid, Erika wasn't in any way into science. _It sure feels like it_. Regardless of that, she could easily sense what was deadly to a certain vampire. And that was all she needed to know.

She shifted her gaze from the strange ammo and on an adjacent, empty Desert Eagle. Picking it up, she could perceive a weight she wasn't exactly too accustomed with. But as she lived and breathed: She would be eventually. _Regardless of how_. Not heeding what she was doing, the vampiress took a firm clasp about the glowing magazine, resolutely inserted it into the pistol and tugged back the slide.

A baneful bullet racked into position.

-

On few matters did Mason endorse Isaac, but he wholeheartedly accorded with him about awakening Marcus. Chaos whirled about in the corridors of Ordoghaz, and his fellow confreres would soon breathe their last if they didn't reobtain their moral and—most importantly—a new ruler. A ruler that would reunite this Coven with the one dwelled across the North Atlantic. Only a few nights before, Amelia had administered the second Coven, which was located on the North American continent. Now, everything was turned upside down; both Covens were in distress, desperately in need of reunification. And Marcus was the only one that could bring this operation to fruition—to disembarrass them of this entangling mess.

"Are there members who oppose my appeal?" Isaac challenged. He searched the crowd intently, but nobody within the semi-circle had their hand raised. "Is there really no one against Marcus's revival?" he reiterated, apparently exulted by this moment of excellent persuasion. _You didn't convince anyone, Isaac_, Mason thought irritably. _Deep down, you know everyone is intent on resurrecting the last Elder_.

"Good," Isaac beamed. "Then let us commence."

-

_Finally, my Lord, you will be resurrected anew_, Isaac rejoiced with delight._ And this time, your stay will be a permanent one_. He didn't have anything against Amelia—or Viktor for that matter; they were all great and determined rulers. But ever since Marcus's second reign, the Corvinus Elder had had a penchant for Isaac above all the other Death Dealers. Isaac himself believed it was by reason of his own unyielding dedication. He had invariably shown Marcus complete allegiance—regarding debates, actions, and battles alike. As an implication, the Elder had displayed absolute reliance toward him. _Just like Viktor trusted Kraven_, Isaac realized, not exactly thrilled about the comparison. He didn't like the thought of comparing himself with that mutt. Fortuitously, there existed a dissimilarity: He was neither hedonistic, nor was he an immoral double-crosser. He nodded decisively. Yes, there were big differences.

Isaac, as well as his retinue of Death Dealers, came to a standstill. Directly before them was an electronic double door made of plexiglass. Glancing through the transparency, Isaac could see three hatches. Only one, he cognized, was occupied.

"Open," he ordered. A second later, the doors obeyed the command, parting with a vague hum. Isaac paraded down the stairs alone, his heart becoming encased with intense cold as he did. The frigid aura of the tiled floor started crawling up his feet in circles.

Standing in front of the leftmost hatch, he locked his eyes onto it. The round, bronze cover was heavily filigreed. Embossed into it was a letter.

_M. For Marcus_.

He took notice of a coagulated, scarlet fluid that had soiled the intricate impressions. His eyes followed the source of the grease—a curdled, red river—and all of a sudden he found himself glaring at a bloody carcass lying prone on the icy floor. Isaac felt a vexing discomfort as he sniffed the air. _Disgusting blood._ One of his blue orbs twitched, his senses perceiving that something could be wrong. _Better check lord Marcus right away._ Two Death Dealers joined him as he indicatively waved with his hand. You two,"—he gave them both a sidelong glance—"You will be responsible for the pivot."

The black-clad vampires nodded gravely in apprehension.

"Alright," he whispered to himself, feeling the many pairs of eyes behind him, watching his every move. He bended forward and rotated the rusty, bronze disc of which the letter _M_ was engraved into. A mechanism located beneath ground started churning, and different parts of the hatch screeched as they began to move and rotate into various positions. Strident sounds reechoed within the crypt. Splitting into four parts, the hatch abruptly receded into the concrete.

_Yes_, Isaac thought joyously, forgetting the strange coagulated fluid he noticed not ten seconds ago. _Awake, my Lord, the last Elder, and guide us to triumph_!

An imposing black coffin slowly protruded from the floor, carrying the golden _M_. Isaac watched the sarcophagus as it elevated before him. The dim light exposed a couple of gray feet, then two veined legs. Subsequently, Marcus's emaciated torso was revealed, along with his crossed arms. Isaac found something a bit strange, however; the Elder's body didn't seem too affected by the long-lasting hibernation. It was gray, but not too gray; veined, but not too veined; emaciated, but not too emaciated. _Must be a result of his incredible powers_, Isaac concluded proudly. He heard the murmur from the crowd intensifying.

A taut neck.

_Do not worry, my dear confreres_, he thought hopefully_. Our Lord will assume control over the lycans in a blink of an eye. He will hunt the betrayers through the depts of the underworld and assure their painfully slow death._

A desiccated mouth agape.

_The wolfen will be driven to the very outskirts of this world, where they will famish to death slowly. And the last thing Kraven, Selene and her feral lycan will recollect before their bane, is excruciating torment and suffering!_

Two sharp, bloodstained fangs.

_When they stand face to face with the scorching infernos of the Netherworld, they will agnize the content of their new lives …_

A furrowed nose.

_Continuous amounts of surging mortal sunlight will incinerate the traitors for everlasting time, while deadly, silver whips will incessantly lash the ferine beasts apart. Both lycans and treasonists will undergo eternal pain … and we will remain here on Earth forever, indulging sole salvatio—_

Two eyes—pitchy, opaque and utterly peeled open.

-

Mason had guided the arrogant captain down the stairs to the cellars and was now standing firmly in the doorway between the tomb of the Elders and the security hall. He could currently see Isaac start the hidden machinery, which immediately responded with its diligent motions. Not being able to eye the captain's countenance, Mason could nevertheless envisage a grinning face gleaming with pride beyond abundance. He knew Isaac respected Marcus above all, and that the captain himself was exceedingly well aware of a forthcoming elevation within both the hierarchy and the ranks. He wouldn't be a tad surprised if Isaac anticipated absolute sovereignty over the other Coven, as well. Mason snorted, albeit knowing the captain's expectations probably would be fulfilled, the American Coven presently being just as leaderless as this one.

The crowd unavoidably began their annoying muttering.

Mason considered himself as he watched the top of the coffin rising from the ground. His disrespectful thoughts of Isaac were not because of envy. It was just the fact that when it came to such administration, he had instinctively lost confidence in everyone but the Elders. For a whole century, it appeared that Kraven was qualified, but in the end, when the appalling treachery was revelated, it really couldn't have been any worse. _A harming conspiracy that could have terminated our being in a heartbeat_, he thought. A deep wrinkle in his forehead inferred trouble. No, the Elders—and the Elders alone—could manage this enormous task, and Marcus was the only one remaining. Perhaps he would coronate a new Elder—or maybe even two? If so, who could it possibly be? To his dismay, Mason could not recall a single living vampire that had the adequate experience. He, as well, was not fitted for such a task. He had always known his destiny: to protect his breed from the enemy as a Death Dealer. _Better to wait and see what he will do_, he deduced and glanced back at Isaac and the sarcophagus.

_What the h…?_ Mason freed himself from his pensive condition and narrowed his eyes, thoroughly scrutinizing the top of the coffin. _Did Marcus's feet stir?_ he wondered. He cast a sidelong glance at his cohorts, but apparently they hadn't noticed anything, still maintaining their formation with callous faces. Shifting his gaze back to the rite in front of him, he unwillingly became a spectator of the horrifying event that would change everything.

An achromatic fist agitated in the air with a godly motion, vehemently backhanding Isaac. Winging high up, the captain coursed in an immense parabola before clashing into the concrete wall with a loud thump. Mason's bulging eyes followed Isaac's extraordinary fall as gravity yanked him back to the ground. Strident screams and convulsive gasps from the spectators surged alarmingly into his ears. "Lord Marcus!" he shouted coarsely, absolutely shocked. "What the hell are you doing? You're hurting your own people!" Every observer except the Death Dealer squad was already on the run, shrilling out piercing cries.

Acrobatically, the still gaunt Elder performed a vigorous somersault, freeing himself from the taut coffin. His movements were quicker than eyes could discern, and just when Mason's chain of thoughts were able to realize the cruel fate awaiting his two black-coated companions, he saw their gory remnants already sprawled across the entire floor, their bodies cleft beyond recognition.

Plaster and debris fell down in front of Marcus, who stood in the middle of the tomb, respiring rapidly. _My Lord, what have you done …?_ Mason couldn't believe the scandalizing sight before him: pools of blood, two minced Death Dealers, a subconscious Isaac and the jet-black contours of a menacing figure, seemingly ready to perforate all opposition. _… Where the hell are his eyes?_ Mason wondered in horrification, his mouth ajar. This was not the Marcus he once knew. The Elder had been known for his asperity ever since the coronation, but now the vampire had gone mad—undoubtedly. His countenance had also changed; he was now considerably graver and more charnel. In fact, his entire being appeared more powerful and imperious than ever. Something was wrong—horribly wrong. The thoughts of trust he had toward Marcus had irrevocably receded into nothingness.

A series of smooth clicks sounded behind him, his quintuplet ostensibly aware of the danger.

Mason hurriedly raised his hand. "Don't!" he commanded severely. "In this condition, if he senses so much as a feeble threat, he will terminate it without hesitation!"

The awe-stricken faces of the Death Dealers didn't seem to comprehend their leader's message, awful eyes being completely fixed upon the black creature.

"Depart Ordoghaz immediately! Go—now!"

Still no reaction—only the convulsive and laborious ventilation heaving in unison.

Sensing Marcus virtually breathe down his neck, Mason crudely repeated the command: "Go, damn you!" His light-blue eyes incinerated with aggravation.

A powerful havoc thrust the clustered squad apart, each member reeling head over heels and into the respective walls of the security room. Dust and detritus flung about in the remaining gush of wind until all quieted three seconds later. The rubble dropped down leisurely, unveiling a vast destruction.

Marcus was gone.

* * *

All right, Selene and Michael are next.

-

Upcoming chapter: **Prowlers**


	3. Prowlers

Okay, then. This chapter took longer time to write than I initially thought. This is no doubt by reason of school. Several tests and heaps of homework have impeded my writing, but the plague finally had to relinquish. laughs at the pitiful attempt Errr …

Anyway, here is the third chapter of _Arcanum_—for those that care. > 

-

* * *

PROWLERS

* * *

One of the back alleys in Erzsébet district proved to be an appropriate route for a hunted prowler. Nearly dysfunctional streetlamps positioned next to the nearby roads maintained a feeble illumination in the complex system of back streets, making a peerless path in respect of stealth. The moist air conveyed a thick malodor, which undoubtedly originated from the numerous overfilled trash barrels lined along the small path. A half-torn 'Budapest Sun' of yesterday lay atop one of the soiled lids, and a blackened banana skin with its content was disgustingly smeared over the wet asphalt. Sitting comfortably in the shades of two dustbins, a gray cat gently liked its paw just when it heard indistinct footsteps nearby. Its auricles erected.

The contours of two figures blurred in the shades of towering structures. From time to time, they ran inside a spot of bleak light. Black apparels vividly contrasted with the bright radiance before the figures quickly delved into the opaque shadows again. One of them yelped slightly, feeling its skin seething slightly. _Oh no, the sunrise …_

"We're almost there," Selene stated, "it's just two blocks ahead." Rapid suspiration made it difficult for her to utter the information.

The two had been on the run for five subsequent days. Taking breaks only when they felt they were secure from danger, Selene and her companion obviously could not have had enough sleep during their escape. The only respites she could recall were the times when the sun forced them to. And even then they sometimes had to continue their painful way through feeble shadows. _It's hard to think you're safe and sound when you've killed an Elder_, Selene realized. And it was not some kind of irrational thought created by her intuition. It was a simple, undisputed fact. Marcus was probably already awakened, and the blood used to end his slumber would impart to him that terrible night, which had occurred only several days past. She remembered that it was Victor who had coronated him 600 years ago. After that, Marcus had seemed to share his mentor's opinions and thoughts—from beginning to end. Never was there a doubt in the vampiress' mind: _Marcus will attempt to hunt us down, no matter the cost._

A figure of manly character caught up with Selene and began to run by her side. Tufts of damp hair flapped in unison with his quick pace. _Thank god_, he thought. _We have to get to safety fast. She won't abide the sunlight much longer._

Incinerating rays of daylight had made the escape extremely distressful and excruciating. Because of the dangerous sun they had to seek refuge long before it ascended on the horizon. Most of their breaks had been in dark cellars of desolate buildings, but sometimes they were however unfortunate, being compelled to rest outside. Selene had especially had times of encumbrance during these days. But they had clung to life this long. And after undergoing several tormenting days, they were finally not far from reaching their goal. Nothing was allowed to thwart them now.

"Michael, there's another intersection ahead. We have to hurry," Selene informed grimly and quickened her pace.

Michael whirled his head in surprise and noticed her resolute expression. "Don't! Your skin won't withstand the daylight. It's nearly full-fledged."

"I'll be fine," she said obstinately, her gaze inexorably focusing on the road ahead. "This crossing is our last. Just be on your guard." She pulled back the slide of her Colt 1911 Nickel, which she had found in the lycans' hideout right before they had fled. Gripping the gun tightly, she didn't find it as pleasing as her former guns: her dual Berettas. _It's better then to be unarmed anyway_, she reflected, considering it a meager comfort.

Using the left bricked wall as cover, she coolly glanced at both ends of the road.

Knowing Selene's stubborn disposition very well, Michael resigned quickly. He watched her spurt into the open, flinging the tail of her trench coat to her face—perhaps a feeble attempt at blocking the sunlight. Notwithstanding, some UV-radiance could strike her, but it was at least tapered to some degree. To his dismay, Michael saw her stagger slightly just as the pernicious rays hit her. But she kept running regardless, her will being resolute and irrevocable. His own, on the other hand, was tottering. _There's something about this place …_ He squinted apprehensively at his surroundings. The Erzsébet district would probably endure a thorough disintegration in close futurity. Everything was completely dilapidated and cracked. _And everything is completely wrong_, he perceived. Contracting his eyes, he calmly took a few steps and regarded every window, every alley—every spot of shadow that could be used as concealment.

A crackle of guns clamored from above, testifying to Michael's premonition. "They're atop this building!" he agnized, tilting his head backward so he could see the looming wall in front of him. Immediately after, responding fire created a strobe light on the street ahead of him. _Selene!_ he thought aghast, hurriedly shifting his stare to the transverse road. The tail of a black coat could barely be seen scarper into the darkness of the alley. _Damn, did she get injured?_ He couldn't tell. A guttural sound emitted from his lips as he comprehended the danger of the situation. Just about to vociferate Selene's name, Michael thwarted his own voice, realizing he could indirectly imperil them even more. Selene, being an empirical ex-Death Dealer, was fully capable of avoiding such menaces by herself. No, _he_ was the one who had to deal with the threat, here and now—not to mention fast. He looked again at the imposing wall before him. But as bone structure twisted and twirled, nails extended into great, sharpened hooks, blue eyes diminished into jet-black orbs, and skin gradually turned melanin, he began considering it a vertical shortcut rather than an obdurate hindrance. With a preternatural leap, the hybridized Michael bound upward and crashed into the brick wall fifty feet above ground. Detritus rumbled down and clashed against the pavement with a thump, but the hybrid remained adhered to the wall. A line of glaze unrestrainedly and swiftly glided up the perpendicular surface and, instantly, Michael was atop the building, finding himself vis-à-vis two men and a woman, all of them black-clothed. Standing close to a clay protuberation, they had located an effective cover from the sun. Aimed towards the street below, the guns in their respective hands rattled cacophonously, the muzzles spurting out frenetic flames.

_Death Dealers!_

"Come on!" one of them blurted. "She'll get aw—"

Surging decisively in the air, a 45-caliber bullet pierced the Death Dealer's chest, immediately protruded from his back, and receded into the bleak mist. He thumped lifelessly to the ground, blood haloing his body.

_She's alive!_ Michael thought to himself, filled with satisfying relief. He was happy to see that he was right about her independence. But the threat was not entirely dealt with just yet. The female Death Dealer had ceased firing and was staring at the carcass lying next to her, completely stricken by shock. The other one, however, was still pestilently triggering his gun.

But not anymore. The Death Dealer stared at a spout of blood, which was gushing from his heavily injured thorax. What the hell had happened? Employing his sight downward, he caught a glimpse of a melanized man sitting perched on the ledge of the hulky structure. _A hybrid!_ he conceived with a consternated expression. Was this the one they called Michael? The one lord Marcus had admonished him of, and concurrently the same person he was ordered to track down? Or perhaps it was the lord himself who was standing beneath him, roosting calmly on the bricked ledge, gratified to see his minions get killed? Recognition became harder as the hybrid, along with the ominous wall, rose higher and higher in the air. The Death Dealer had never actually had reliance toward his superior, despite trying. It was just something about his entirety, but he couldn't really define it. In fact, as he recalled the night when the disruption had occurred, he also remembered his tormenting uncertainty. On which side did he really belong? Whom did he serve? He realized however that it didn't matter how much he questioned his allegiance in the war. And still less would the other question be of any more relevance: _Who killed me? Michael or lord Marcus?_

As he deliberately had told himself: It didn't matter. He felt the wind growing more powerful with every millisecond, passionately surging down on him. Tilting his head backward, the Death Dealer saw to both his alarm and alleviation the ground rave down upon him. And then, everything turned to nothing.

-

The fusillade had abruptly ended, and Selene was hiding in the shade of a towering construction across the road. Running a risk, she solicitously peeked in the direction of where the projectiles had originated from the debris. Only a short moment ago, the ex-Death Dealer had heard a great clump, making her curious of what had crashed to the ground. From where she stood, it seemed to be the sanguineous remainders of a battered body, but being too far away, she wasn't able to identify who it was. Removing clustered strands of raven hair from her face, she carefully peered upward. _What is happening up there?_ Selene curiously inquired herself. Just then, she noticed the indefinite outlines of a manly shape quickly descending from the misty sky. The contours became more distinct as it approached the rough surface of the street, and_—boom!_—a thud of excessive intensity made the entire block vibrate menacingly.

Standing unyieldingly amid a circular area of appalling devastation, an ebon figure looked at the vampiress. Or at least it seemed to do so; Selene couldn't tell because it seemed to be lacking eyes. A short-haired female was slouching right next to the dark shape, whose clawed hand was clenching the collar of her black robe.

_Michael_, she thought, assured.

With absolutely no exertion, the hybrid pulled the drooping female into the shadows where Selene was squatting. "She, along with two other Death Dealers, was the one trying to kill us," Michael informed in a soberly tone as his black tegument began to disperse, the millions of skin cells performing a tardy suffusion. "Now we know for sure."

"Marcus is after us." Selene didn't appear surprised, squinting at the female Death Dealer, who was unconsciously reclining on the mucky surface of the back alley. The insensate face implicated an easy acknowledgment, despite an abraded cheek. Her lips were particularly familiar, being embellished with black lip rogue and a golden piercing. _It's Opal_, Selene figured. The two vampiresses had protected their species together for circa two hundred years, but Selene knew that deep down, Opal distasted her. The ex-Death Dealer had easily discerned her diminutive frown every time they had made eye contact. _What did I do to deserve her disrespect?_ she wondered vexingly, not recalling a single rational reason.

Michael discovered Selene's ambiguous expression and couldn't resist uttering the question, although perhaps exceeding the boundaries of good demeanor. "Do you know her?"

Looking up at him, Selene noticed that he was now fully retransformed. "Yes," she replied, a bitter smile crossing her face. "Our relation was quite complicated, so I'm not exactly taken aback by this." Safely holstered to her belt, Opal's secondary weapon, a Heckler & Koch MK23, caught Selene's eye. She ejected the magazine, suspicion escalating. The purplish illumination was easily recognizable. _UV-bullets,_ she deduced worriedly.

Michael readied another question, but cut off as he saw Selene's chestnut eyes twitch. _The daylight_, he retrieved.

"I know," Selene conceded gravely, a deep furrow trenching between her eyebrows. "Even staying in the shade is becoming unbearable." Severely grabbing Opal by her arm, Selene hit her stride down the malodorous alley, the lifeless body being hauled across coarse asphalt. "Come on, the safe house is right around the corner. We'll pry information out of her there."

-

Half recalling his last impressions, Michael wasn't exactly stricken by the nondescript structure this time, either. The brownstone was still cracked in the extreme, and, in addition, as anonymous as the rest of the Erzsébet district. Retrospecting, he could very nearly perceive the unendurable agony, which he unwillingly had been forced to brook. It was the close of his life as a human. And now, having evolved into a one-person species that was feared and wanted alike, he had acquired the best of both worlds. Michael didn't know whether he liked it or not. But come to think of it, his future hadn't changed much since he set off to Hungary to continue his life as a doctor. _My future was just as uncertain then_, he thought to himself wryly. But this radical change had made his existence exceedingly momentous, however. Not to mention, his self-esteem had doubtless escalated for the better.

The raddled lobby was still strewn with broken and rustic furniture, and winding stairs sagged just so creakingly as last time. _Still undergoing desolation_, Michael thought, obliquely eyeing his decaying environs. Not that it was unlikely; a revival of such degree required a big and venturesome investment. Neglect had deteriorated the locale nigh beyond reconstruction. Considering it from another perspective: It was a nice basis for a safe house.

The two started climbing the dingy stairs that led to the uppermost floor of this less stalwart pile of bricks. Michael, still surprised by his new and improved capacity, now realized that he was easily capable of maintaining Selene's swift pace. Not like last time, when he immediately had been out of breath after ten seconds of running. _And I thought that I was in good shape_, he thought, grinning somewhat.

Ascending the end of the staircase with no further effort, they continued their way through the wreckage, treading steadily across a decrepit corridor, which was poorly decorated with a mangled carpet. Remaining inanimate, the slouching Opal was being tugged along still.

Rupturing the wooden double door, Selene paced into the Spartan interrogation room and quickly pulled a switch on the frugal wall. The steel shutters, reacting to the electric signal, pivoted, efficaciously impeding the sun and its deadly rays. _Thank god_, she thought, exhaling a sigh. _No more exasperating sunlight—at least for a while. _Now, she and Michael were able to discuss and plan what to do next. _And hopefully, I'll get to know him a bit better. _She shot a glance at him. Perhaps there existed something inside of her that wasn't completely saturated with hardheartedness? In fact, the only feelings separating her from a living dead were the ones that originated from the liquidation of her family. _Revenge_. But now, maybe—just maybe—she could experience another feeling. A feeling of a much more alleviating character in comparison to her otherwise sole vindictiveness. _Love_.

Her relieving musings fleetly vaporized, however, as she set her eyes on the apparently unconscious Opal, who was now starting to stir. Selene had totally forgotten about their subject of interrogation. Swearing beneath her breath, she frenetically gripped Opal by her achromatic garments and hurled her into a massive steel chair.

Brows knitting, Opal had ostensibly driven off the disorder that usually followed a concussion. Either that, or the Death Dealer had been conscious for a longer time than what was apparent. _All the same_, Selene thought. Opal was going to get it either way.

-

"Don't you understand?" Opal snapped, thoroughly affected by aggravation. "It was Viktor. Viktor all along! I've looked up to him ever since I became a Death Dealer. But despite my trying effort, I couldn't surpass you." She cast an accusing look at Selene, who was leaning against the enamel tiles covering the concrete. Glaring back at her formerly fellow Death Dealer, the exiled vampiress listened to the spoken words with musing interest.

"Viktor loved you above all else," Opal proceeded with a banal look of disdain, which Selene didn't have any problem recognizing. "And that sickened me. For I have just as high ambitions as you, if not higher. And my devotion …" she spoke softly, lowering her head.

Michael, standing by Selene's side, remained quiet, but he eyed the two girls by turns. _This is definitely turning into a catfight_.

"My devotion is at least sincere. You, on the contrary,"—Opal's lips curled in a snarl—"betrayed the trust that Viktor had in you."

"No!" Selene flared, lurching from her leaning position. "It was Viktor who betrayed _me_!"—she pointed at herself—"He raised me as his child, in spite of his abominable misdeeds in the past, as though he neglected the terrible fact. Killing my family, turning me to a vampire, mentoring and favoring me—it was all an act of selfishness!"

"A feeble fabulation, Selene. I can clearly see why he wants you dead!"

"She's telling the truth," Michael interrupted, hoping he could bring the unhelpful misunderstanding to a close. Barely able to release her contemptuous stare from Selene, Opal reluctantly turned her attention to the unknown man. "Viktor admitted it when he realized Selene knew," Michael explained. "To him, Selene had remarkably close resemblance to his own daughter, Sonja, who was married to a lycan long ago. But because of that—and the fact that she carried their baby in her womb—she was killed. Murdered by her own father."

The Death Dealer sitting in the interrogation chair carried a look of nothing but bemusement. Sudor trickled down her brow.

Selene took over: "Viktor dreaded a blending of the species, even though hybridization, in fact, could prove to be the solution to ending this war. The war erupted because of _him_, Opal, and it _still _ravages because of him. Viktor was no leader; he was an egoist. He should've taken others in consideration and accepted the birth of the hybrid."

The room quieted, intensity gradually sapping away. Michael dearly hoped they had convinced her. Switching glances with Selene, he saw that she shared his hopeful thought. But when he scrutinized the other girl, however, he saw her staring right at him, her ivory face bespeaking no comprehension whatsoever.

No sympathy, no antipathy.

The air smelled of fear.

"You're …" Opal began, giving out a sibilant sound. "You're the hybrid! I can sense it—the blood of both species! Your blood smells the same as Lord Marcus's!"

_What?_ Selene thought, Opal's words taking her breath away. Did her hearing deceive her, or perhaps Opal was just blathering? Or did she actually hear her say that Marcus's blood was identical to Michael's? _Damnation! Is Marcus a hybrid, too?_ Selene reasoned. The danger was even greater than she had predicted. _How the hell did that happen?_ Looking at Michael, she got a line that he, too, had noticed the terrifying remark.

"What? What is it that Marcus want?" Selene inquired, her countenance trenched with austerity. She apprehended the opportunity of receiving valuable information regarding the Coven. But observing Opal's reaction, Selene quickly concluded that her attempt was in vain; her prior companion involuntarily juddered, and her eyelids were painfully peeled aside.

The panic-stricken subject of interrogation cast several swift glances at different parts of the room, but succedent, she locked her eyes onto something. Selene followed her gaze and saw to her great dismay a weapons rack that was not too far from Opal's reach. _No, please. Don't do it._

Opal's protruded eyes studied the two again, evidently trying to see if they understood what she was about to do. Selene waited for an eternity to pass. Michael tarried, as well. He mostly kept his gaze on his favored companion, although Opal was the menace. It was Selene who had the power to decide, however. This was a personal affair between the two women, and he would only kill this Death Dealer if Selene's life were at stake. And somehow he knew that it wasn't. But the Corvinus descendant felt something prickle inside his head. He was certain, wasn't he? Tormentingly tarrying, he was curious about the upshot.

_I beg of you, Opal. Do not do it_, Selene thought, desperately wanting to utter her plea. But she knew full well that a single sound, regardless of volume, could incite a horrible event. Though, what else could she do? It was a foregone conclusion; one of them was going to get severely injured by the other, or if worse came to worst, one of them—if not both—would soon depart this world. The bond between her and Michael could be torn apart, and she would never see him again. Could she bear that? If the question had been asked two weeks ago, she wouldn't stagger in the least. Hell, she would in fact laugh off the query. But now … things had changed.

The infinity elapsed, and the time of forecastable occurrences was over. Like a blue streak, Opal lunged out of the chair, clinched a Vz61 Scorpion, and whirled about, fully prepared to spark off. But one thing happened that was beyond her prevision.

Grey smoke sloped upward from the muzzle of a raised MK23. Tightly grasped about the gun was Selene's hand, which had already pulled the trigger. Behind the obscure fume, Opal could scarcely discern Selene's grim disposition—the last thing she could see before hellish, purple light crept across her vision. Until now, her will had never been brought to actuality. And neither would it; that treacherous vampiress had put Viktor to death—had put her purpose to death. And for the sake of amplifying the anguish to an intolerable degree, the last thing Opal was constrained to look upon was the person who had deprived her of the reason to live. At least her last thoughts had been abundantly gratifying, and perhaps they compensated for the excruciating spectacle. _Relish your life, Selene_, she advised with profound contempt, _for it will soon be brought to a close_.

As her own was now.

-

The momentum of the UV-projectile had sent Opal back into the chair. The bullet dug deeply into her lungs. Baneful daylight began to diffuse itself effectively inside her body—scorching through veins, flesh, and bone. Witnessing the whole transformation, Michael felt a qualm suddenly bulging inside of him, despite his previous career as a doctor. He could easily handle the sight of blood, but this was completely different. _I'm looking at a decaying carcass_, he thought for himself, unable to impede a distorting flinch. He turned to Selene and saw that she was tottering. Just before she tumbled to the ground, he gave quick support as he embraced her.

"Don't give up, Selene," Michael pleaded.

All of her muscles entirely depleted, Selene drooped in his arms, gravity seeming ten times greater than usual. "I'm not," she retorted stubbornly. "I just need some time to think this over."

Michael stroked her back affectionately to signal his comprehension. "I know these are hard times for you, but remember, we've successfully escaped the Death Dealers; we're safe from danger for a while, now. Just relax. We'll rest here for a couple of days."

Selene inclined her head in acquiescence. She knew she was safe and that this was an opportune moment to regain her vigor, but Opal's death troubled her, stinging painfully at her heart. This was the second time she had killed one of her own. The first victim—her prior leader and surrogate father, Viktor—deserved his demise, however. But this time … This time, she had murdered someone who was completely innocent. _If only they knew the truth_, she longed. That was however impossible at the moment; she had been caught seemingly red-handed, and no one would even think of believing a decried vampiress who had been sentenced—to death, probably—for her so-called 'perfidy'.

She was completely aware of the future; Opal was just a commencement of a long chain of killings. Even more innocent lives would perish. And they would continue to do so—unless the secret was revelated. If the Coven were to know the entire truth, then _maybe_ the vampire clan would accept her as one of their own again. And hopefully, with Marcus being a hybrid, too, they would consent Michael, as well. But nothing was sealed. Certainly not. First and foremost, she and Michael needed to find a way to proclaim the revelation. Afterward, the Coven would announce their fate.

Now, the two only needed to contemplate the problem—how to reveal Viktor's true disposition and reobtain trust. But how could that be feasible when they didn't know the complete truth? Or when they weren't even cognizant of the endless prevarications the vampires, including Viktor, had believed for so long?

Michael and Selene hoped for a tomorrow, and the Arcanum mocked them for it.

* * *

AN: Another chapter completed. I'm not too sure about the quality of 'Prowlers', so if you could review on this one, I'd sincerely appreciate it. Reviews amplify my urge to write, as well, so you'd be killing two birds with one stone, my lil' friends.

If everything goes as planned, the next chapter will tell more about the state of the Hungarian Coven, and more importantly: It willintroduce our beloved Kraven to the story. He's not in Budapest anymore, nor is he in Hungary. He's somewhere else planning his reconstruction and the next coup d'état. In addition, you'll be given hints about what the Arcanum really is. Ooh-ooh, spooky!


	4. The Primal

There's not too much to say, really. Oh, other than:

**Aiel:** Bless you for bothering! XD

So, here it goes—the next chapter:

-

* * *

THE PRIMAL

* * *

The receptionist of hotel Victoria sifted through a bundle of papers orderly stacked on his reception desk. The content ranged widely from reservations via Internet to miscellaneous queries regarding both the hotel and the worthy tourist attractions in the English capital, London. An avid enthusiast of his own home city, the receptionist couldn't help himself when he was asked questions of the latter kind. There were so many attractions in London worthy a visit: Madame Tussaud's and Regent's Park, House of Parliament, St. Paul's Cathedral (he especially remembered the marriage of Prince Charles to Lady Diana, what an event!), Trafalgar Square, and not to mention Buckingham Palace, which was situated with all its Neoclassical brilliance next to this hotel. _Ah, all the lovely monuments_, he thought joyously. He had readily frequented them throughout his life, and still he didn't find them tedious or trite. In addition, he had a likewise opinion about passing on his knowledge of the historical structures to other people. No, he never grew tired of it.

The clavier of Bach's _Jesu bleibet meine Freunde _played soothingly in the background. A few hours ago, the lobby in which he stood had teemed with tourists, but was now gradually becoming devoid of life. Only a lovely couple was emitting the little tad of spirit that could be perceived. Reclining on the leather sofa in the lobby bar, they sipped expensive wine from their chalices and had a seemingly absorbing conversation.

The receptionist glimpsed at his wristwatch. _10 P.M. _Most of the hotel guests had probably indulged themselves with a stroll along the streets of the beauteously lit capital. Some had perhaps even snuggled into their beds already, gearing up for tomorrow's events.

_Anyway,_ he thought,promptly twitching his eyes, _enough of this contemplation_.

Positioning his glasses on the bridge of his nose, he began reading another pad of papers. _Probably an additional reservation_, he reckoned and tapped a few keys on the keyboard, activating the program specifically made for such requests. Just then, an insistent voice interrupted his work.

"Where is the Bag of Nails?"

The receptionist peered up from his papers and saw a handsome man with slick black hair that reached down to his shoulders. Strangely, he hadn't heard his approach. Adorned in the finest Armani suit, the man was apparently on his way to some kind of formal engagement. But, didn't he just mention the name of a nearby pub?

"The Bag O' Nails, Sir?" he asked in an unsure manner.

The solemn guest gave a quick retort: "You heard me."

Realizing he didn't like the guest's rude disposition, the bashful receptionist coughed slightly—a trivial but excellent excuse for avoiding eye contact. "Pardon me, sir." He indicated with his hand while explaining. "You will find the pub if you cross Victoria street and continue along Buckingham Palace road. It is located on the corner, near the Royal Mews. Maybe—"

"Most plentiful," the fashioned guest cut off and left the lobby with haste. The exit doors quickly glided apart in his coming, as though fearing to hinder his will. _I wouldn't try to obstruct that man, either_, the receptionist saw. Sighing thoroughly, he couldn't wait to meet his wife later tonight, the skittish encounter having depleted his want of working. Perhaps he would invite her to a romantic dinner at a nice restaurant. But which one? _Well, certainly not the Bag O' Nails_, he deducted quickly.

-

Descending the stairs outside of hotel Victoria, Kraven saw the analogous similarity. _Just like I've descended—in rank. That damn bitch_. He cursed Selene for her inopportune intervention. _If she hadn't poked her nose into my coup d'état, I would be on cloud nine now. Instead, I'm stuck in this shitty city, undergoing the most mortifying demotion of all_. The ex-regent had to concede, though, that it was his infatuation with Selene that had ultimately brought him to this debilitating disgrace. It had made him blurt out things that should have remained esoteric. But the least favorable impediment of all: It had kept Selene alive, giving her the chance to expose his plans and bring them out into the open (a chance she absolutely had to make use of, of course). If he had been more nonchalant—which he should have been all along—then he would have ruled the Hungarian Coven at this very moment, exulting in his luxurious existence. Fortuitous for him, his ornaments—rings, golden chains and bracelets—were worth at least some. He had exchanged all of them for money, which he sorely needed. But this wealth fell short of his voluptuous disposition. Pleasure could only be exulted if it was perpetual. Limits, regarding both economy and power, were past his tolerance.

It had taken Kraven the whole flight to London to acknowledge his failure, but it had to be done in order for him to be able to commence his reconstruction. This time, he would not let anyone stand in his way. This time, his scheme would be successful. And this time, the prerequisite was not to palter; now it was all about revelations.

Oblivious to the clandestine war between the two immortal ancestors, the unencumbered pedestrians promenaded along the Buckingham Palace road. _So many people, so much blood_, Kraven mused. He hadn't tasted blood since … the Elders knew when. He could almost see the scarlet fluid surge in their veins, glowing through what seemed like transparent skin. Self-indulgence was without question the hardest thing to be deprived of. At this hour, he normally would be reclined on his favorite sofa, nipping toothsome blood from a heavily embellished goblet. Cloned blood from Ziodex Industries. But now such blood was not accessible to him. He painfully remembered the conventions, emphatically proclaimed by Viktor himself, that said that Blood Hunting was strictly prohibited. _Well, I'm not exactly a member of the Coven anymore_, he reminded himself. Besides, Viktor had never managed to follow his own rules, so why should he impede his relish? Maybe he would indulge himself with a little bite after all … But that had to wait until later, however. Now he had other matters to attend to.

The great street, which led to the palatial residence of Queen Elizabeth, radiated vividly in the darkness of night. Sparkles illumed lambently, and zealous neon advertisements mounted on the towering structures shone above the numerous footers. The average tourist would gasp in reverence at the spectacle, but Kraven was aweless, solely immersed into his appointment.

Yellow taxies and the notorious two-leveled busses zipped past the vampire as he vigorously strode on the pavement, heading toward his destination. Only one thing was irrevocably trenched into his mind: Albeit a simple letter, it expressed the most peerless of all enigmas.

_A_.

-

The putrid rat took wing through a rusty lattice and into the dark of a wretched tube. Like most of its species, the rat disliked all kinds of hazards. Implicating its runaway were a series of footsteps bumping rapidly against the cracked and mucky pathway. Hiding in the blackness, the rat listened carefully to the unfamiliar sound, which was menacingly intensifying. It feared the worst. And then, through frightened black eyes, it saw something quickly pass by. Relief filled inside of its body as it realized the danger was over, the footsteps tapering off as swiftly as they had appeared.

Exceedingly weary of her fetid and monotone surroundings, Erika was on the verge of leaving the despicable sewers of middle Pest. But decisive thoughts incited her to continue her hunt. Chances were that the ones she was searching for were hiding out in this filthy complex. _And I cannot presume they are on the surface_, she understood deliberately,_ the sewer is unfortunately just as good a den, if not a better one._

Erika runningly rounded a corner and reached an abrupt cul-de-sac. She swore beneath her breath, incensed because she was forced to take a u-turn. Another obstacle she could not afford. _But wait_, she thought, _isn't that …?_ Contracting her violet eyes, the vampiress followed the malodorous stream of waste material flowing in torrents next to her. The disgusting rivulet had adjoined her roughly two minutes ago, and now it streamed down a wide cavity, forming a vast and noisome cascade.

The vampiress smirked slyly. Sauntering over to the brink of the hole, she continuously bounded into the air and practically took a leap in the dark. The glossy trench coat, which she recalled stealing from the Death Dealers, fluttered intensely as she plummeted down into the unknown. The flapping of the garment gave her the feeling of being a raven disentangled from lengthy imprisonment, set free to do its own bidding. The new combat apparels had made her travels considerably more practicable and had bestowed her with a genuine feeling of independency. Contrary to her former plan to achieve acknowledgement, the project she had now set into motion was much more individual. _And perhaps slightly more brutal_. Erika grinned at her understatement as she bended her knees to oppose the end of her 70 feet voyage.

_Bang! _Landing vigorously into a squatting position, she warily closed her eyes for the purpose of perceiving eventual response to her vehement entrance.

Nothing—excluding the copious swooshing emitting from the great deluge adjacent to her.

The pitchy-clothed vampiress rose to her feet and cast examining stares about her. _Can't be too careful_, she thought. Finding the place remarkably gloomier in comparison to her previous environments, she noted similarity nonetheless—in view of achromatism and monotony. But there was one thing that Erika had discerned immediately after parting her eyelids: The site had been brought to ruins, some of the once constituting brick walls being completely broken apart. Debris lay sprawled across the uneven surface, and films of dust recumbing atop it inferred that this part of the sewers had remained untouched for some time.

_Crack_.

Fleetly cocking her head in the direction of the conspicuous sound, Erika's eyes bulged out, turning instantly azure. She clapped them on the decrepit passageway from which the sound came and realized the corridor was not too far from where she stood. _Who?_

The vampiress coolly unsheathed her Nuit Noire Rapier from beneath her lustrous coat and began to walk toward the dilapidated corridor in a meticulous manner. The adrenaline scorched within her, and her heart throbbed energetically against her ribs. As she approached the narrow pathway, incoherent murmurings greeted her ears. Exposed fangs indicated her lust for bloodshed, and her glacial eyes symbolized the cynicism of her actions if she was to meet opposition.

-

The atmosphere inside the Bag O' Nails was thick with smoke. Kraven didn't bother counting, but his nostrils told him that this was the typical pub where the lion's share of the clientele was continuously puffing their cigars. The exterior hadn't impressed him, and the interior wasn't in any way more striking. _What a nice pick, friend_, the vampire thought. The pervading satire clearly implied his distressful condition. Never had he missed the sybaritic life in Ordoghaz more; the thought of mingling with pathetic humans nauseated him nearly beyond intolerability. And damnation, there were too many of them! The pub teemed with activity, the enervating chattering buzzing in his ears with the most annoying persistency. A cheap television hung steadily on the beech-paneled wall. The sports reporter's voice was immersed by the incessant cacophony from the visitants.

"Hey, there! You up for a guest ale, mate?" someone asked from behind. Kraven turned callously about, only to see one of the male waiters beaming at him. The saturating Australian accent didn't amend his earlier impressions of the pub, he realized. _Ale? No thanks, you damn fool_, Kraven scorned, exposing a frown. _Proffer your blood, and I will reconsider the offer_. Neglecting the question, the vampire passed him and began searching for the person he wanted to see. He wasn't able to note the waiter's response to his rudeness, but in any case, he didn't care.

Pie-eyed guests constantly ran into him, his exacerbation increasing proportionally with every collision. _Where the hell are you?_ he enquired. Leaving the place was tempting, but he resolved that it was not an alternative. _My ingenious plan cannot come to fruition without a bit of assistance_.

Kraven had made an appointment via telephone at Ferihegy Airport in southeastern Pest just before he entered the plane. He had emphatically told his accomplice to meet him in London right after the sun had set. It was not he who had suggested this despicable place, however. _Well, I can't expect much of a thug like him_, he deduced.

A high-pitched whistle sounded barely to his right. Instinctively turning toward the sound, Kraven agnized that his minute search was over. His being flooded with assuagement at the gratifying thought.

"Kraven," the man said gruffly. A sharp fang was exposed as he smirked crookedly. Sitting next to a coarse-looking table, he drew out a lighter from his pocket. He put it to the cigar placed in the corner of his mouth and zipped it. A flickering flame spurted forth, revealing his sly countenance. As he inhaled the tobacco, the ignited cigar glowed with a dim incandescence.

The man's stern features connoted his Caucasic origin. Dusky skin and stubby beard eradicated all doubt in Kraven's mind. _A consummate thug_, he determined.

Seating himself opposite the vampire, he framed a gloating grin.

"Rex."

-

Her back pressed up against the impaired wall, the vindictive vampiress heard people approach the corner by which she stood. _There are three of them—perhaps four_, she perceived. _Not exactly the highest probability of survival_. The murmurings had now gradually turned into coherent whispers.

"The ruckus came from over here," one said mutely.

"Are you sure?" another inquired.

Erika had her eyes on her surroundings. _Not one damn hiding spot_, she realized. The vampiress was compelled to act, seeing that she would be spotted sooner or later. It was better to catch them off-guard when she first had the chance. _Just wait a little longer_. The Nuit Noir Rapier felt pleasingly harmonious as she clutched it thoroughly with both hands.

Her hunt had anything but ended—she would see to that. Not until that fallacious dolt was put to death. The voices emitting from around the corner were definitely not of Kraven's, and that actually alleviated her. Perhaps others who desired Kraven's death would have sensed the opposite, but Erika wasn't like any other. She wanted to undergo a laborious endeavor before she would put an end to the vampire she both hated and loved. As a consequence of the labor, the gratification would amplify to a greater extent—to an adequate extent.

Now they were more than close enough. With a combination of vigor and bloodlust, Erika whirled around the corner, Rapier in hand, and ambled toward the flabbergasted faces of three dark-clad men. She halted when she found herself only ten feet from them.

"A female vampire!" one of them blurted out and raised his Heckler Koch MP5 midway, as though uncertain of the danger of the encounter. The grasp about the Rapier slackened, the whitened flesh of Erika's palm turning into a scarlet hue as blood was permitted to flow once again. She scrutinized the men's appearances in brumous silence.

The three had identical apparels—dark as they were—but their respective countenances diverged from each other. By reason of ebon skin, the leftmost man's expression seemed more somber and determined than the others'. His unswerving stare was fixed onto their possible menace, one hand on his Sig Sauer P225, which was aimed straight at her, while the other clasped the hilt of a scabbarded Flambergé. Contrary to this man's relentlessness, the MP5-wielder emanated doubt. His dark-red hair hung in front of his face, and the alabaster skin contrasted noteworthily with the ebony man.

"Lower your gun, Cain," ordered the third one, probably the superior of the triplet. Opposing his short, black hair, subtle gray strands inferred his centuries of age. A stiff collar protruded upward from the man's trench coat, contouring his virile jaw. Erika had seen him in Ordoghaz before, but annoyingly, she couldn't place his face.

"I said, lower your gun," he repeated, setting his eyes on the man to his right.

The inferior, whose name apparently was Cain, squinted sidewise to his leader and then reluctantly lowered his pistol.

Trepidation turned to vapor as Erika understood she was safe from lycan brutes. _Thank the Elders, they are of my kind_, she assured herself. But then again, there was another hindrance uprising. The three Death Dealers wouldn't kill her—at least that was evident. But they were however perfectly capable of stymieing her in other ways. The vampiress swore beneath her breath, her right hand slowly reaching for her modified Desert Eagle. _I won't allow them to thwart my mission_.

Like blazes, Cain menacingly lifted his gun toward her once again. "If you unsheathe that weapon, I'll gladly ensure your demise."

Erika ceased to move and retorted with an enticing simper, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

The leader seemingly noticed the threat, too; he raised his hand, beckoning her to mollify. "We're not going to harm you," he assured and gently took a step toward her. "We are just being cautious."

Tearing her eyes from Cain, she regarded the diplomatic vampire. _Cautious? Why are they being cautious?_ She knew full well of her rather vulgar entrance, but even so: Considering Cain and that other red-haired Death Dealer, no vampire would exhibit such hostility toward his own breed.

Strapping his UMP, the leader looked at her attentively. "I apologize for the lack of etiquette. I'm Mason. Who are you?"

Erika, turning a deaf ear, refused to listen to his introduction. "Don't play tricks with me. You intend to take me back to the mansion, don't you? Well, I am tired of being a servant and a minx, so back off!"

Mason raised eyebrows, but subsequently turned grimmer. "Ordoghaz? Why should we take you there?"

"Because of my illegal departure, of course." She rolled her eyes, sighing. "Or perhaps you haven't noticed?"

Frowning, the Death Dealer cast a conspicuous look. "Don't you know what have happened to the Coven—about the dispersal?"

-

"Is this some sort of a joke, Kraven?" Rex inquired, narrowing his left eye and cocking his right.

"No!" Kraven whispered vigorously, his ardent gesticulation implying fervent enthusiasm. "I'm telling you, Rex: Lucian is dead, Viktor is dead, and the whole war has turned into a great tumult! This is our chance!"

The cigar illumed fierily in the dimly lit pub. "Okay, okay, I believe you." Rex's sharp accent rang in Kraven's ears. "But how the hell are you plannin' on getting back your position in the Coven? If you haven't drawn a blank already, you're thrown out. Or rather, you're wanted—not alive, but dead."

_True_, the ex-regent conceded, but with a wry smirk. While mulling over the question, he eyed his odious surroundings for a moment. Most of the clientele had left. Except for the staff, there were only a thick-bearded sot slouching on one of the bar stools and a man sitting next a table with his back hunched forward, beer in hand. Had it really taken him so much time to explain the situation of the war?

He turned his attention back to Rex, who—considering his expression—anticipated an explanation. Kraven thought it best to answer him. "My coup d'état does no longer rely on assistance from distrustful people. Last time, I had to rely on Lucian for 600 years. Whereas, this time, I will not take that chance."

Leaning over the table, Kraven leered to his sides, making sure no one could hear him. Perhaps he had become paranoid of all this thinking, but as he deliberately had said: He didn't dare to take any risks.

"I need your help, Rex. Consider it from another perspective: You will have your revenge on the aristocracy. As we both know, you did not intentionally kill lord Nicholas."

A slight snort escaped the thug. Holding his cigar over the ashtray, Rex tapped the roll, causing the ash to drop down in the container.

"This," Kraven proceeded with his persuasion. "This may be your moment of retribution, Rex—your opportunity to recompense your expulsion. As you can see, we have a common goal, you and I. If you're willing to cooperate with me, then together we'll share the glory, the power, the wealth."

A slight pause occurred before he asked the question: "Now, what do you say?"

A stern look met Kraven. Crossing his arms and slanting his head, the vampire thug appeared to contemplate the journey on which he perhaps would embark. Kraven couldn't tell how the tendency was. Suddenly, the chair on which he sat became uncomfortably hard. He changed positions, but none felt satisfactory. Dreading this moment during the entire flight to the capital of England, he realized it was far worse than he had initially feared. What if Rex refused to comply? Who would help him then? He couldn't think of another vampire—let alone lycan—who would willingly assist him. Perhaps his fate was already sealed, he fretted. Maybe his destiny was identical to Rex's? He would rather kill himself before becoming a thug.

He finally found a comfortable position as he saw Rex curve his crafty grin.

"So, how do we set this plan into motion?" the thug asked, his smirk still etching his face.

Kraven knew. He had known ever since eavesdropping on Marcus and secretly studying the days of yore. If it weren't for that promising deal with Lucian he had at that time, he would have brought this plan to fruition right away. Now that promising deals turned out to be failures in the end, there was nothing stopping him. Yore and future would converge into one, and together, they would prove to be quite fatal.

"It all starts with the awakening of the Primal," he told Rex cunningly while a thought reverberated in his mind.

_Digging into the past is forbidden for a reason_.

* * *

I'm a tad happier with this chapter, in spite of it being more of a teaser. But now I'm actually quite unsure where the next chapter will take place, so I'll have to spend some time contemplating this. If you'd like, you could write suggestions, and I'll consider implementing them. Also, I've toned down the language a bit. If you have thoughts about whether it's a change for the better, then please tell me.

Till next time.


	5. Do Not Attempt To Elude Your Fate

Thank you for the review, **iridescent eyes**—I sincerely appreciate it.

AN: I have thought a little about what Aiel said in his latest review, and tried to add some inconsequential reading, which, frankly, isn't that inconsequential after all (logical, huh?). This chapter will bring out some past occurrences and introduce you to … a missing link.

-

* * *

DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ELUDE YOUR FATE

* * *

"_In my mind's eye, a great tale depicts a fatal selection, the decease of the very first female Elder, and a superlative egoism. Renowned for a steady perseverance and next to divine beauty, Luna was an eminent crowd-pleaser beyond all else. Truly a fine vampiress, that one. Her and Nicholas's coronation on which the vampiric populace sincerely concurred, took place in the little hamlet of Timisoara in anno Domini 603. If the Apocrypha are historical correct, then Luna and Nicolas's accedence ran parallel with the dissolution of the Huns, the dominant Byzantine Empire, and the regime of a Turkish tribe of humans, the Avar. It was at this point of history that the vampires' existence nearly was unshrouded to the public eye as humans began to settle themselves within the borders of Timisoara. As an implication, Luna—together with Lord Nicolas—was now forced to uphold the cohesion, and thus made history._

"_The first decision she made as an Elder was to move the vampiric society to the lands of Moldavia. Their community endured difficult times during this migration, their day-to-day routines changing radically. But as not two months had passed, they made their peace with the conversion, and the society could start to develop in its sluggish manner once again. That was when Lord Nicolas uttered a proposal of implementing a chain of sole sovereigns. 'Perpetual swayers are doomed to become immersed by tyranny,' he said. Luna agreed and continuously brought forward the idea of having three Elders maintain the Chain. The council showed accordance with both propositions, and therefrom, the Covenant was effectuated._

"_One awake, two asleep._

"_Performing what would become a predominant rite, Lord Nicolas sent Luna into hibernation. Rumor has it the spectators marked a tinting tear trickling down the Lord's cheek. Because of this, vampires have ever since believed there was quite the relationship between the two Elders. Certainly, I herewith tell you they were good friends, but perhaps you have interpreted this tear as a fact that there was more to it. Yes, maybe there was. No one can actually contradict this hypothesis. In fact, the majority believed and still believes they were lovers. On the other hand, proof of a more intimate relationship between the two can never be found, either. The question of whether the rumor is true or not, remains to be answered subjectively by our several intellects._

"_Forgive me—I digress._

"_During his first century of administration, Lord Nicolas was given the task of vesting the echelon as the third Elder in a vampire. However, he could not find the appropriate one. Destiny made him wait up to the time of his hibernation and Luna's assuming control. This was in anno Domini 703. Before he reclined into his sepulchral coffin, Lord Nicolas proclaimed Viktor—a vampiric soldier showing more than abundant potential—as the third Elder, in spite of his age that was circa the life of a human at which point. But unfortunately, as yet, the reigning Elder's choice has implicated a whole millennium of destruction and suffering, solely by reason of egoism: Viktor's profound contempt toward their cousins, the lycan species._

"_It is his despite that started the war, his scorn that caused the demise of the beloved Sonja (his own daughter). Viktor and his followers' actions enraged the lycanthropes, whom they had treated like slaves for two whole centuries. And concurrent with the origin of the war—namely Sonja's death—was the second calamity when Luna was assassinated only one year before her Awakening, by premeditated and vengeful lycans. This happened in 1402, immediately after the war had commenced. Using this act to his advantage, Viktor declared this as another explanation of their former disunion with the wolfen. 'And therefore the separation will precede until I stand before death's door!' he said. And to that he held, it seems._

"_But, believe me when I say that, at bottom, Lord Viktor was not to blame. As widely known, one cannot distort one's very disposition—your destiny; that would be a dishonor to the gods' creation. I say: Do not attempt to elude your fate … Be the one you are born to be, even though your nature equals the abominable disposition of a god._

"_I will leave it at that for now."_

-

The cool night breathed out its tranquility upon the district of Erzsébet. Gentle breezes swirled intermittently amongst and between the oak trees, while trickles of raindrops descended the peaceful sky, moistening the myriad green straws of grass. The Erzsébet Park was a stark antithesis compared to the rest of the district, which never really had shown its picturesque sides since before the days of Soviet control. A crescent moon, flooding light with all its gelidity, cast an azure tinge upon the dismal and decaying district.

Lounging listlessly on the floor in the utter darkness of the safe house, Michael had problems sleeping. Too much was on his mind right now: vampires, Death Dealers, and Elders. But where on Earth had the lycans gone? Ever since the death of Viktor, he had seen none of them. It was as though they had departed Budapest for good, leaving the vampires alone for some unknown—and irrational—reason. _As though_, he repeated in his mind. He certainly could not prove it, but somehow Michael knew that the lycans still remained within the borders of the Hungarian capital. The question was where, as well as when they would play their part in this story.

Selene, however, was probably enduring a situation of a more encumbering character than he did. She had killed Opal, a priorly fellow Death Dealer, earlier that day. By reason of a UV-bullet, Opal had undergone a thorough combustion, slowly turning her to a heap of mere ash. Michael remembered Selene's appearance so clearly. Gripping the smoking MK23 handgun tightly, her hands had trembled nervously while fingers pressed against the trigger. Conjoined with tears of sorrow, the gleaming perspiration had run down her alabaster face, followed the bridge of her nose, and come to a halt next to a couple of quivering lips. Michael, who had used all day to provide succor for Selene, had finally seen signs of her recomposing. Just a few hours ago, she had collected the ashen remnants of Opal, walked over to the windowpane, and cast it out into the darkness of night, letting the breeze disperse it. Selene had told him it was a ritual gesture serving to symbolize the liberation of the soul. Afterward, quiescence had immersed the safe house.

Michael clapped his eyes onto the person adjacent to him. The lambent silver light from the gibbous moon shone upon Selene's lustrous apparels, but it did not illume enough for a human-formed Michael to see her alabaster features. But he was however perfectly able to feel her petite body pressed up against his own and her head reclining on his chest. He was unaccustomed to the lack of warmth emitting from her body. Myth depicted vampires as cold-blooded, but Michael never thought of the description in a literal sense. Did he, too, lack human warmth now? Nonetheless, he needed not her warmth to understand her feelings; her tight embrace was more than construal.

Retrospecting, the hybrid recalled the first time he set eyes on the astonishing vampiress. It was just as he took the escalator down to the subway station, right before that appalling event occurred. Selene's pallid appearance—despite reflecting doubt—gleamed with fairness, while his own, he presumed, was gawky and undoubtedly a target of ridicule. Notwithstanding, Selene must have found something in him, because, after all, she was lying next to him this very instant.

She raised her head with seemingly profound exertion and slanted it so the lunar rays brightened her favors. Looking thoughtfully at Michael with a pair of tired chestnut orbs, Selene crossed her arms and reposed them upon his chest. The blunt grogginess enclouding her eyes evinced her exhaustion.

Contemplating her, the hybrid took easily note of the delicate contours of her face shaping her loveliness. He could not restrain a grin, though, as he noticed her rather funny visage. She was thoroughly depleted—no doubt. However, contrary to the dubious facial expression she wore in the subway station, her dimly lit face was now pervaded with certitude. Michael realized that her countenance actually had altered since they first met. _She has softened somewhat_, he thought, continuing his smile. _But it's definitely a change for the better._

Then, for the first time ever, the hybrid witnessed a phenomenon of incomparable rarity: Selene was smiling. Never thinking it possible, he now conceived he had been wrong. For here she was atop him, indicating her unquestionable pleasure. He could not have requested a more beauteous spectacle.

Slithering closer, the vampiress bent over him and tenderly met his lips with her own. A reminder fell upon the hybrid: the alluring kiss she had given him a week ago—before she fleetly manacled him. It, too, happened in this very place. She had left him here a whole night. He recalled it so vividly: the pain throbbing inside his head, the frigid aura emanating from the interrogation chair on which he sat. But something was however quite different from then. Now, caressing Michael's sinewy arms, Selene was not staggering as she kissed him again and again. Now she would not restrain him with fetters and abandon him in a stone-cold interrogation chair. This night, her body howled for togetherness.

Promptly returning her kissing, Michael closed his fatigued eyes, sensing a pleasurable feeling welling up inside his entire being. At that very moment, when their bodies entwined, Michael realized something.

He loved her.

-

"… Don't you know what happened to the Coven?" Mason queried with one eye contracted. "About the dispersal?"

No, Erika did not know. All the same, this new knowledge would probably not help her and her furtive prowl. But on the contrary, it was definitely not going to disadvantage her in any way, either. And maybe … If she was fortunate, then maybe this Mason knew where Selene was. Having no inkling where Kraven had skittered off, Erika suspected that Selene knew more than she did. Within seconds, this fortuitous encounter had seemed to form hostility, but now, the tides had turned, and this could actually become quite beneficial to her.

The instinct of watchfulness was overwhelmed by curiosity, which nearly came out of her ears. Sheathing the 44 inches of argent steel, the revengeful vampiress pored at Mason. "I don't know what you're talking about," Erika retorted glumly, putting up a little façade. She wanted to expose no trifle of compliancy.

Casting a sideways glom to both his confreres, Mason framed a visage of ambiguity. Paining silence stung Erika's heart over and over as she awaited a response. Fortunately, the leader required only few seconds to acknowledge the authenticity of her reaction and replied in good time. "It's not safe here. Come." With a wafture of his hand, he beckoned for her to follow. "Allow me to take you to our hideout, and then we'll talk." His associates—Cain in particular—exhibited great discomfort, starting to retrace their steps into the vile, obscure tunnel from which they came. Erika barely saw Cain gritting his teeth. _What's with that guy?_ she pondered curiously.

Erika's mind was tore in two. On the one hand, this could impede her mission greatly. She needed to find clues, and she needed to find them while they were still fresh. If she were to follow this triplet of vampire warriors, then her vindictive act would possibly have to stay on hold for a while. Screaming for her to go away, this part of Erika's mind tried desperately to persuade her. _Continue your one-person search! They are all deceivers! You can only trust yourself! _But on the other hand—and this one carried an inclining predomination—this Death Dealer could actually aid her cause. Not to snuff out the life of Kraven, of course; that she wanted to do by herself. This Mason would simply assist her with his counsel and knowledge of the situation.

Nodding, she trod toward the three. Two of them—Mason's colleagues—had already turned their backs on her, the pitch blackness of the tunnel nearly having engulfed them. But Mason, however stood by and waited up for her. The small pile of rocks almost crumbled beneath her feet as she meticulously stepped on it. _Hell, we'll be lucky if this place doesn't plunge down on us._

"Forgive my confreres," the leader entreated as the vampiress came to stand next to him. "They have a hard time restraining their skepticism toward strangers. Especially after we fled Ordoghaz."

Erika sensed bewilderment coiling up within her stomach. _What did he just say?_

"No, you heard correct," Mason confirmed, briefly smiling. "It's not like we wanted to. It was Marcus's condition that forced us to take flight. You see, the conflict is not how it used to be—it's not like the time when you were a chambermaid."

The vampiress almost tumbled over and began floundering. "Y—you know?" she blurted, bug-eyed.

Cracking another smile, the leader turned and began walking into the nauseous tunnel. Not slowing down, he probably assumed she would follow.

His presumption was right. Erika's inquisitiveness was like a halter fastened about her neck—it was as though an invisible chain yanked her forward. _What in the Elder's name has happened to the Coven while I've been gone?_ she meditated anxiously. Suddenly, the vampiress found herself in a state of uneasiness. If Mason told her the truth, then she knew she was oblivious to the ruckus occurring around her. Annoyingly, she was aware of the oblivion, but could not rid herself of it. The thought almost caused a mental breakdown.

Realizing Mason had quickened his pace, Erika accelerated considerably, as well.

"The strife has reached a milestone," he informed, swerving his head toward her in part as he did. Erika had difficulty seeing his face because of the erect black collar partly concealing it. "All we can do," he continued, "is to adapt to these radical changes. We chose to flee because if we had stayed, the disharmony between Marcus and us would've eventually become our bane. Why? Because the Marcus we once knew has changed. I think Viktor's decease has made him completely mad; he started prating about 'Corvinus', 'Demetrius', and 'derivations'. No one could actually fathom his uttering, and thus a quarrel originated once we interpreted it differently. There were mainly two sides: The aristocrats and Isaac's platoon against us—the Death Dealers. We thought him to be stark mad, whereas they showed their consent regarding the junction—"

An earsplitting fusillade reverberated through the tunnels, and with a brief but bright flash, a bullet ricocheted as it hit the uneven floor and fleetly drilled itself deep into the concrete wall. Small rock fragments drooped before gravity jerked them down to the floor. Zealous, lavender light pulsated from the little hole into which the pernicious bullet had delved. It irradiated the repelling corridors, creating a bloodcurdling and wicked atmosphere. Vociferous clamor in the background thundered into Erika's ears, bearing a likeness to the malevolence from the very Perdition.

Trotting with a steady gait, Erika passed by Mason. _Daylight bullets_, she discerned. _What type of danger is this?_ Just before she turned the corner, utterly ready to participate in the weaponed combat, a strong hand caught the tail her trench coat and yanked her backward. Fluttering angrily about, Erika sibilantly bared her pale gray fangs.

"Calm yourself!" Mason spat, his dark eyebrows sinking into a frown. "Cain and Bryce won't lose their ground so easily. Here,"—he pulled out a black Walther P99 from beneath his pitchy coat—"you will need this. Silver bullets. Just be quick on the draw, and the lycans will tumble to the ground."

Erika's eyes burst open.

_Lycans!_

-

Baneful bullets chipped the floor, making it sparkle with all its avidness. In earnest, Erika spurred across an opening and came to a halt next to a corner. Reaching the cover she felt a volley of incandescent projectiles graze the back of her blonde hair, flaking the concrete into disrepair instead. The vampiress pressed her body against the viscous wall as she heard the guttural sounds brawl behind her. _They were there—I saw them! _Her body seethed with profound contempt. _Damned beasts! _Infuriated, Erika yenned to witness a bloodbath. Gritting her teeth, she prepared to swirl around the corner and pump the beasts' wicked hearts full of silver.

Just then, a deadly salvo spurted out of a machine gun to her right. Instinctively cocking her head in the direction of the perilous sound, Erika almost sensed the daylight perforate her skin. Luckily, it was that Death Dealer—_Bryce, wasn't it?_—who was effectively clearing a path. His narrowed gaze was firm, resolute, as it peered through the scope of the MP5. Sparkles illumed here and there, the bullets—argent and incandescent alike—surging past each other by turns.

Erika, glancing down, cursed under her breath. It was quite the peril she had gotten herself into. And worst of all, the danger was irrevocable; she was compelled to face the menace, and maybe … her death. The irises of her eyes nearly blazed into nothingness, leaving her fixed pupils alone, as if exhibiting her relentlessness.

"Never!" she sibilated and practically took a leap of fate out into the open, gun raised. Electrified, the vampiress realized she stood vis-à-vis a towering, hirsute body of brawny muscles. Five sinew blades thrust out of a hairy paw in unison, accompanied by a familiar growl that greeted Erika's ears.

_Holy …_ she thought, completely in terrified awe as the noisome malodor oozed from the lycan's feral grin and down on her. Loathly, the putrid smell crept up her nostrils, sending a shiver down her spine. Cobalt-blue eyes gazed warningly at her pistol, then shone their ominous energy upon the vampiress, who—despite sensing the fear attempting to entangle her—stood her ground still.

Its face contorting, the lycan gave forth a savage bellow and launched at her with its talons protruded. Efficiently whirling to the side, Erika eluded the beast's assailment, but did not expect the second slug, which came immediately after. Lacerating her delicate skin, the pernicious slam left her a ghastly wound across her cheek, and the momentum sent her flying into the nearby wall.

Fragments of rock tumbled down about Erika. She could hear the amplifying cacophony from the battle waging all around her, rendering the atmosphere increasingly tenser. Moaning, she put a finger to the crimson lesion, but quickly withdrew it when she felt it singe fervently. Blood trickled down from her mouth as she got up to her feet, ice-blue eyes continuously and intently clapped on their foe. _Bloody varmint! You can't stop me! _she thought scornfully. _A disgusting lycan won't be the end of me!_

On all four, the lycanthrope lurched toward its victim, foam dripping from its mouth as it thought of her juicy flesh. Cocking its lupine head, the werewolf aimed for her slender neck.

With a fluid motion, Erika ducked beneath the lycan's jaws and sprang behind it, elegantly rendering it assailable. With her P99 in hand, she concurrently jammed the muzzle against the enemy's neck, ready to witness the blood gush forth. _Die!_

A voice of which Erika never had heard before, bawled within the narrow corridors, repeating its demand as it echoed off the walls: "Stop!"

-

* * *

Okay, now the 'blood memories' are implemented into the story. You will eventually see what they are for. Other than that, I had a difficult time finding a way to introduce the missing lycanthropes. They will be more vital in _Arcanum_ than you might think, but revelations and goals will not be disclosed right away (or at least, that's what I have in mind at this point). Concerning Michael and Selene's little scene, I thought I would write a little something about their growing love. I profoundly hope it's not too much of a cliché. If it is, you need to tell me right away—that's very important (!) because I'm really green regarding love scenes. Actually, I don't think I have written one before … Doh. 


	6. Time

First of all, I want to say that I'm sorry for a sluggish update. I've been quite busy this week, despite it being a vacation.

Then, my comments on the reviews:

Someguy: Well, it may have been the lack of good description, but Selene never found UV-bullets in the safe house. When she examined the unconscious Opal in _Prowlers_, she discovered a pistol by accident. Ejecting the magazine, she found a cartridge packed with UV-bullets. It was this gun and these bullets that caused Opal's unfortunate demise.

Lady Sirinial: Thank you! It's always nice and mentally uplifting to hear that someone appreciates your story. I hope you like this chapter, as well.

If you already didn't know (cough), I'm sincerely grateful for every single review I receive, so please, keep them coming.

Well, other than that, there isn't much more to say, so here is the sixth chapter. Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

TIME

* * *

_"Jakob. The lastborn._

_"I recall his face—his severe visage framed by a wavy mane of chestnut brown and charcoal black, the easily observable cheekbones contributing to his visible asperity. I recall him as the stern, meticulous and enigmatic one. The two others … Their personalities and looks contrasted starkly with Jakob's. Whereas they would readily describe how their day had been, Jakob would usually fall silent if queried. I wonder, did I ever get to see him smile? Most likely not; I would assumably have remembered such a rare sight._

_"Never speaking unless it was needed, Jakob seldom uttered anything. This, unfortunately, conduced to an absence of communication and sociality. Only by considering people's faces, you could without much effort discern their uncertainty growing immediately as they attempted to make a conversation with Jakob. Yes, their hesitancy existed beyond question; people's babbling was yet another convincement. No one knew what lurked in the abyss of Jakob's mind. And no one wanted to know._

_"Still waters run deep, Anthony Trollope said. Despite Jakob's brusque manners, I still loved him—dearly. Many were the times when he gave me the brush-off, but I supported and helped him all the more so. In my very last minutes, however, the otherwise blasé Jakob actually emanated what I have later on interpreted to be an emotion. Albeit ambiguous, his affections brought comfort to my soul. Alas, if only time would cease its perpetual advancement …_

_"No, please expunge that last remark._

_"Something unknown evolves within me, leading my thoughts astray. As history vividly passes through my mind, I am not too sure what to think. I am a bit overwhelmed—confused and uncertain. And that, I must admit, is quite rare. My feelings seem to blend together into an unfathomable mass from which I cannot escape. I know I should have rid myself of this perplexity by now, but the current situation—the outcome of the past—has proved to be unpredictable. I had never foreseen such implications as these I see before me now. Even worse, implications do not just go away; one after another, they unite with the past, etching permanently into the chronology of history. They cannot be altered, regardless of your power. For no existence is able to exceed the peerless power of time—the strongest force within our humble perception. However, I feel the need to say that the definition of time is barely within our borders of understanding. Who can really explain what time is? How do you define it? Some think it is the fourth dimension of this world, whereas others simply see it as a variable of life—or the parameter, if you prefer. But the only thing we do know for sure, is that without it, we would not exist. And inasmuch as the progress of time is both unchangeable and unavoidable, we, the existence who live parallel with time, should find a way to attain harmony with it. We should be exulting in our lives, which are solely a result of time's admirable bounty. My following question is: Are we? That I will weight in my mind somewhen later._

_"Now, in which way should I interpret my annoying bewilderment? Should I be feeling indignity? Exasperation? Perhaps fear? Or should I follow in Jakob's footsteps and act nonchalantly? I know there is something within me, something disturbing my interior life. And that something is a call, I am certain. It is just waiting for me to comprehend its message. Unfortunately, I will need some time in order to fulfill its anticipations, but the consolation of knowing that I eventually will comprehend, brings me comfort. And that, I always remind myself, is all on account of time. Time. Alas, of all the living things on Earth, I seem to be the only one who shows gratitude to the understated force that we all require, namely time. But, then again, I am in many ways inexistent."_

_

* * *

_

"Selene!" Michael whispered persistently, jiggling her shoulder. "Selene! Wake up!"

Except for a scarce groan, the sleeping vampiress gave off no response. The sun had set latterly and the jet-black night was gradually approaching on the horizon. Normally, Selene would be awake by now, suited up in her trench coat for another day of hunting. But spending two days hiding in one of the vampires' safe houses, Michael and Selene had lost all sense of time, so to speak.

"Please get up!" Michael requested in a low voice, preserving his urge. "I hear them! I hear the lycans approaching!"

Lycans! Selene thought aghast, eyes flaring up. She lay completely still, casting a purposeless but relentless stare at absolutely nothing. Sight was of no importance now. What mattered was the perception of hearing.

She waited in utter quiet. Meanwhile, thoughts mingled inside her head. _How the hell did they know the location of our hideout?_ She could not recall telling anybody. That was however not what concerned Selene the most. The question whether the lycans were allies or foes, bothered her past anything else. In this state, nothing was certain. Thinking back on the unbearable situation right after she and Michael cooperatively put an end to Viktor, Selene recollected the lycanthropes receding into the opaqueness, as much as she had felt her mind do the same thing—just not in a literal way. Because no matter how hard she stubbornly tried, there was no way she would fathom the lycans expressions; they had been too cryptic. The lycans themselves would have to word their meaning.

"There!" Selene hissed silently, heeding the potential enemy's activities. "They must be right outside—in front of the back door, most likely."

She rose to her feet. Sensing her composure slowly receding, Selene fleetly grabbed her ordnance atop the adjacent table. She tugged back the slide, the smooth click gratifying her. Now, at least, she was not completely defenseless. "Follow me."

Michael, who was just seconds ago squatting next to a sleeping Selene, stood up and regarded her ethereal being. A detectable furrow had deepened her eyes, evincing the distress, which seemed to increase exponentially within her. "Where are we going?" he inquired, making sure that he still kept his low voice.

"We need to find a way out of here." With a fluid motion, she kicked open the door that led to the main staircase. She glanced over the wooden rail in case the intruders already had entered. Fortunately, contrary to the last time they had stayed in this demolished lump of brick, no one was in view. Ascending the winding steps, she heard Michael's rapid footsteps behind her.

"Wait," he insisted, taking two steps at a time.

Selene stopped short at his request, letting him catch up with her.

"Just give it a thought," he bespoke. "What if they actually aren't hostile?"

Selene cast him an ambiguous look, willingly letting the silence take over. It was just a sign showing her need of further persuasion. After all, she did not know where she was standing. It was extremely difficult to get rid of a once rudimentary scorn, she realized. And everything had gotten so confusing. At one moment, she had been a next to top-rank Death Dealer—a devoted protector of the vampiric society—and with a snap of one's fingers, the vampiress found herself on both sides and at the same time on nobody's side. And worse than anything: She was no hunter anymore; she had become the hunted.

Michael had noticed her dilemma during their escape through Budapest's bemusing complex of back alleys. He knew, because—vexingly enough—he was nearly becoming accustomed to this state of bewilderment; Selene and he were facing the same predicament. However, there existed a slight difference. Whereas Selene, at some time, had known her position in the war, Michael never had. Ever since the moment Lucian—the deceased leader of the lycans—had tasted Michael's flesh, perplexity had mired the hybrid, prohibiting him from choosing a side. And before that, when he still had been an oblivious human, Michael had never even _thought_ about picking a side, because he never needed to. In point of fact, he had not known that such absurd sides actually existed. Amid the never-ending vexation, however, there was a thing he was certain of: One person could he trust. _Selene_. Yes, he was on Selene's side.

"Come on, what if they intend to join us?" he persuaded energetically. "It is as plausible as anything else. Besides, if we mean to end this war, we are in desperate need of enforcement."

Selene was about to give a quick retort, but shutting her mouth, she decided not to. She had to concede that Michael had brought forth a good point. Never had she thought the possibility of lycans being friendly. To date, she had automatically assumed that 'lycan' and 'benignity' were antonyms. _But perhaps they aren't …_ What is more, if they continued to act on their own account, they would most likely become a victim of the war. In fact, Selene was quite surprised they had survived their far-fetched elusion as yet.

She sighed profoundly, ready to predicate her consent, just as the staggering jumble of red brick encircling the massive stairway began to stir to and fro. Both Selene and Michael turned to the menacing ado around them, not sure whether a storm had substituted the breeze, or if there was some other cause. The first hypothesis lent little color, however; the soothing breeze had whispered outside just moments ago. Perhaps the moth-eaten condition was simply the reason alone?

Painfully slow and ferine growls exuded from between the segmented bricks, suddenly rendering the rare phenomenon fully explainable. The perilous cacophony propelled Selene and Michael up the stairs. "Damn, they are climbing up the walls!" the vampiress exclaimed warningly as debris spewed from decadent walls and plummeted around her. "We need to get moving!"

Michael nodded in agreement, then tilted his head backward in order to witness the threat clearly. He had to acknowledge that the chances of the lycans being on a friendly errand were quickly evaporating with every passing second.

The discordant sounds of the jarring walls, though still bearing their deafening loudness, reduced in volume as the tumult quickly elevated toward the topmost portion of the lofty room. _They think we are on the top levels_, Selene surmised and stopped short.

"I think we should reconsider our escape route," Michael proposed, cutting off his spurt, as well.

Hurriedly cantering over to the ligneous railing, the vampiress peered over it once more, but this time she fixedly aimed her gun down the entwining composition of red-carpeted steps. Twisting downward like a DNA-molecule, the stairway fuddled Selene slightly. Luckily, it also caused her anxiety to vanish in part as her suspicion appeared to be wrong. _Thank god, they haven't surrounded us_.

"Let's go," she advised sternly. "I think I know another way out of this hell." Showing no hesitancy, she caught a firm hold of Michael's plain black t-shirt and pulled him next to her. "A little shortcut," she said dryly, eyeing him. And together, they sprung over the railing and plunged down several stories. Fluorescent lights caused their flickering garments to shape ghastly, shadowed apparitions on the disintegrated wall.

The plummet conjured a sense of déjà vu in Michael's mind. This was just like the time he had realized he had incurred otherworldly abilities. Because of a repercussion, he had fallen head first out of a window, which was probably 20 feet above ground. But miraculously, he had instinctively landed on the asphalt without a single laceration. Now, as he witnessed a plunge of his life, he was certain he would survive this one, as well.

Selene and Michael hit the matting ground in unison. Evidently unaffected by the drastic descent, they contiguously got up to their feet and ran through a tall archway.

_We need to get to the southmost parts of this building_, Selene contemplated as the two rounded a corner. _Then we'll reach Damjanich Street. If we get there, then maybe we can ride out this attack. Maybe_.

Spurring together with Selene through the abounded, high-reaching hallways of the building, Michael felt as though they continued along a nondescript path ad infinitum; it never seemed to end. And knowing that a pack of lycans, feasibly voracious and malevolent from the looks of it, were prowling furtively about in close vicinity, made the entire experience even more reminiscent of a nightmare. _No matter how fast you run, the monster will catch up with you regardless_. Michael desperately hoped that signs of reality would be exposed soon.

"Take the door to the left," Selene insisted decisively. Her words were savorous to Michael, who began to reconsider his atheistic leanings. It was as though a divine being of some sort had heard his acute plea.

Running shoulder first into the mahogany door, Michael used his momentum to rupture it. A loud crack of sagging wood sounded as the door violently flew open. Feeling more and more assured, Michael was sequentially becoming habituated to his preternatural powers.

But would his strength be strong enough to thwart the three ravenous lycans, which he now was suddenly standing face to face with?

_Shit_, he swore silently, trepidation suddenly washing over him as he saw that the chances of a successful escape were quickly wearing thin.

The lycans' yellow fangs were coated with trickling froth, the imaginary taste of flesh watering their mouths. Their pheromones (or their lack of hygiene) had precedently contaminated the air with a putrid malodor. Guttural growls reverberated constantly, displaying their malicious intent. Michael, who had already begun his changing, had caved in; as far as he noticed, the lycanthropes had shown no indications of benevolence, and thus he had no choice but to face the danger.

A metallic click emitted behind Michael, who perfectly knew what that meant.

Cocking her pistol firmly in the direction of one of the lycans, Selene pulled the trigger apace. The gun recoiled as a burst of argent bullets spewed out of the chrome barrel. The clattering sound initiated two of the wolfen, which began to set upon their luscious prey. The silver slugs perforated hirsute skin, but they could not thwart the two lycans' ominous assailment.

Fluidly spinning away from the doorway, Selene took cover behind a paneled wall. "Damnation!" she cursed indignantly. _I hope Michael's strength is sufficient_. Ejecting the ammunition clip, she let it fall to the tiled floor with a percussive rattle.

Michael would try to fend off the two lycans' attack as best he could, but the metamorphosis was not complete. His eyes, turning jet-black, locked onto the menacingly approaching werewolves. Agitating his right arm, Michael mauled one of the two. The strike sent the lycan backward as it vehemently hit its lupine nose, but it also made Michael an easy mark for the second lycanthrope, which took full use of the advantage and viciously backhanded the turning hybrid. Supernaturally strong, the propulsion drove Michael through the entryway and hurled him frantically against the utmost concrete in the hallway from which they initially came.

Thoroughly appalled, Selene watched Michael wringing in acute pain as an avalanche of dust and detritus rolled down beside him. _Michael!_ she fretted, round-eyed. Pulling out a new magazine from beneath her pitchy trench coat, she jabbed it into the pistol, and the metallic slide snapped back into place.

Just as one of the voracious beasts stepped incautiously into the hallway, Selene was quick on the draw and pumped the lupine being with pernicious silver. With a great thump, accompanied by a feral roar, the lycan sunk down lifelessly to the ground. Crimson blood exuded out from the hairy body and began locating the nighest depression.

Selene turned her attention back to Michael. Tottering, he was getting up to his feet in a sluggish pace. _Come on, faster! Faster!_ she begged frowningly, swallowing hard. She could clearly discern Michael's skin changing into coal-black while the snapping of crackles sounded as his bone structure altered formidably.

_Smash!_—a portion of the wall next to Selene exploded yieldingly, wood cracking as it ruptured apart. It was hard to see past the dusty mist, but not much contemplation was required for Selene to realize that there was a rapacious lycanthrope standing vis-à-vis her. Narrowing her eyes, she could scarcely see the towering lupine beast befogged by debris.

Not wasting a second, the werewolf lurched into the air with its razor-sharp claws extended, ready to decapitate the vampiress in a single blow. Swiftly and deadly, Selene tried to counteract the onset by squeezing off the remaining silver slugs into her enemy's chest. _It's not going to stop it!_ she realized in apprehension as the lycan loomed in the air not five feet from her.

Like a blue streak, an agitated, black claw jerked forth and snapped around the werewolf's hairy neck, digging deeply into its flesh. Selene fell backward instinctively and watched in horrification a fully turned Michael fling the brute upward, sending it crashing into the ceiling. Before gravity even was allowed to yank the heavily injured lycan back to the ground, Michael leapt from the floor and impacted it, sending the two combatants into orbit until they crashed to the ground with a loud thud. Atop the enormous beast, the hybrid hammered it repeatedly with his keen-edged talons.

Selene spun reluctantly around in the direction of the sound of shattered glass. _It came from where we initially encountered the lycans_, she collected. Casting a swift glance back at Michael, she saw that the hybrid had efficaciously liquidated the assailer. _Good_, she thought, nodding. _Then I'll go check on that suspicious clamor_. A new cartridge was slammed into place.

Deliberately passing the doorsill, the vampiress was not exactly taken by surprise at the sight before her. Distinct cobwebs encased a great breach in the window. Gliding into the room through the rupture, a breeze got ahold of Selene's brown hair, causing it to waver gently. She had not felt nature's soothing wind since their five-day run through Budapest's less aesthetic areas. Casting aside the dark clouds that churned within her mind, it was truly refreshing.

Selene turned about as a bloody Michael entered through the doorway. He walked over to her in a sauntering gait. "The third one escaped?" he asked rhetorically.

Nodding in affirmation, she veered her head back at the breach. "It's probably gone to report back to its superior," she surmised and trod over to the broken window. "Whomever that is."

"It seems that I was wrong." Michael sighed. "They are still as hostile as before. What do we do now?"

"Well, one thing's for sure: We can't stay here any longer. Soon, this place will be jam-packed with lycans. Frankly, I don't know why they didn't send more in the first place."

"Yeah, that's something to chew over."

"Anyway," Selene cut off, suddenly emanating a fiery ardency. "We need to get going; we're short on time. I know of a way. Damjanich Street is directly connected to the sewer. It isn't pretty, but it appears to be the only place where we can lie low."

Thereupon, the two quickly left the safe house. For the first time in two enduring days, Selene and Michael tasted the freshness of a chilly night. It revived some of the hope that had recently diminished, and now, the two were fixed upon bringing to pass the hideous revelation. Thoroughly exulting in the invigorating air, they prepared themselves for a stay in fetid and nauseous environs.

* * *

The cacophony had nearly turned void in the murky corridors. 

A tall figure strode through the ankle-deep water, signaling the other lycan to fall back. It did so immediately. Coming to loom over an injured Erika, the man scrutinized the dark-clad vampiress.

Erika returned a glare, which seethed with scorn and anger. Strangely enough, he carried no weapon. I _can't kill him if he doesn't pose a threat_, Erika figured, lowering her gun_. My mere purpose is to kill one particular person, and this is not the right one. _Nonetheless, there existed no doubt about it; his strong aura evinced his authority. _He must be the lycan's superior_, Erika guessed. The towering humanoid werewolf was appareled in a brown leather blazer. Beneath, a tight, dark-green turtleneck encircled his brawny neck from which an aureate medallion hung. Erika noticed a flamboyant A inscribed into the center of the insignia.

"You! Stay away from her!" a familiar voice sounded behind the vampiress. Already knowing whom it was, Erika turned around to see Mason with his hands steadfastly wielding a UMP, which was aimed straight at the imposing man standing in front of her. "I said stay away," he reiterated grimly, "or your blood will be spilt."

Raising his brown-gloved hands defensively, the humanoid lycanthrope curved a smile that was surprisingly friendly in appearance. "We're not here to hurt you," he said sedately. "We're here to join you."

_A great actor, it seems_, Erika thought skeptically, even though his utterance was strangely genuine. She regarded Mason to see if she could predict his response to this peculiar statement.

It proved to be quite difficult, she figured. Mason's visage showed neither scorn nor a sign of convincement. His azure eyes were fixed upon the calm lycan, as though trying to penetrate the flesh of his physical being, see past him and espy his sincere soul. The Death Dealer's attempt seemed unsuccessful, however.

Appearing from their respective corners, Cain and Bryce leered as they saw what Mason had encountered.

"We don't have time for this!" Cain said coarsely, baring his teeth. "Don't listen to that brutish rascal! It's a feeble and easily discernable wile. They're only here to throw us off tra—"

"Keep your mouth shut, Cain," Mason ordered gravely, interrupting Cain's scornful utterance.

Cain chose not to retort, but maintained his contemptuous stare upon his enemy.

Erika had fallen silent a long time ago. It was as if she was completely neglected by the two opposing sides, which she had to concede she was irritatingly accustomed with. _Just like the time when I was a servant girl …_ But the vampiress was notwithstanding quite intrigued by this little drama that was occurring right before her. _It _is_ somewhat riveting_. She wondered what would happen next. Eyeing the sinewy humanoid werewolf, Erika realized he was still emitting his benign smile and his hands had impressively enough not moved an inch, still raised in the air in relinquishment. Mason, on the other hand, appeared to undergo a vexing strife within himself. The vampiress could almost hear the question commixing within Mason's mind: Should he or should he not trust the lycanthropic foreigner?

After a long moment of silence, Mason opened his mouth to speak, contracting his eyes as he did. "Who are you, stranger?"

The query triggered the muscular lycan's once stonestill hands. He pointed at himself casually. "Me?" he asked, glancing about as though to see if the question was meant for someone else. When he clearly comprehended that everybody expected him to answer, he did so nonchalantly:

"The name is Jakob."

* * *

I'm not sure if there has been too much action these last two or three chapters, so please give your opinions on that. Anyway, I'm probably going to let the bloody vendettas, deaths and action recede into the background for a little moment now, because I believe it's time for imparting more story and information here. 


	7. A

Aiel: Thanks a lot for the review! You know how much I appreciate it.

Author's note: This chapter became much longer than I initially had planned. But as this is the last chapter in the first part of _Underworld: Arcanum _("Seperation"), I thought I needed to create somewhat of a cliffhanger in the end.

* * *

A

_

* * *

"I know there exists good, and I know there exists evil. Unfortunately, evil deeds are inclined to be more influential than the good ones, whether it be mortal or immortal initiation. However, whereas mortals have their own less estimable actions, the secluded immortals' villainy is considerably worse. Contrary to humans, the immortals never reach agreement. Nor do they seem to want to. Of course, humans also have their flaws and discords, but the majority of the mortal race at least strives to attain harmony. Even though immortals—theoretically speaking—have the ability to obtain valuable knowledge and reason through their eternal lives, facts tell us otherwise; the forte turns to a flaw as egoism substitutes kindness. Without trouble, we find the Millennium War as an example, which is just one of many inescapable testimonies supporting my theory. The word 'extermination' tends to be the only thing glued to their minds. Why this irrational purpose? _

_"Although all facts largely contain an anomaly, this fact does not. If one believes that it dwells benignity within the immortals' world of arrogance and stubbornness, one has only scratched the surface. Behind their every apparently unselfish action, there lurks egocentricity. The lycanthropes, for example, discovered the genetic code from which their immortality initially originated—all on account of this Lucian and that Austrian scientist Singe. Using their knowledge to induct hybridization, the two saw a way to end the war. Superficially, this act easily resembles one of goodness, but in truth, this was an attempt on annihilating the enemy, a repelling try just like any other. Another thing that gives rise to contempt is the fact that the lycanthropes could actually have found the very key to ending the Millennium War. As could the firstborn, Demetrius, who was the first one to learn about the hybrid. If my son had not been murdered because of his studies in anno Domini 1098, I believe the milestone would have taken place much earlier. But like always, this would probably not have ended the war either; peace, it seems, has never been an option._

_"During these last few moments that time has so kindly given me, I have come to discover that divinity follows the same pattern as the earthlings: It has its deeds and misdeeds. Whilst the birth of man was a sign of good will, the plague ravaging my village in the fifth century caused my reverence toward the gods to sink_ _quickly. But then again, there was not much respect to lose. Nonetheless, I never understood why they let this calamity occur, and it is unlikely that I ever will._

_"At small intervals, nightmares befall amid my dreams and memories … Nightmares horrifyingly reminiscent of the time of the great plague. I still recall the panic, the hopelessness, and the inane deaths—all of which happening at one time. And the suffering children … One little boy, I remember, stood in the middle of the rumpus, frantically shrieking as ashen bubonic swellings bulged in his bloodless face. Within seconds, the swellings had completely disfigured his adolescent visage, and the boy had subsequently tumbled to the mucky soil, never to rise up again. Another child—this one a girl—had been crying despairingly in her dead father's flaccid embrace, only to wait for her inevitable death. I offered my assistance to each and every dying soul I happened upon, but it proved to be insufficient. No matter how hard I tried, the number of casualties increased exponentially. But then something dawned upon me. The reason for this horrendous ordeal was beyond question: This was the gods' will. They wanted to take lives._

_"And they wanted to give birth to immortality._

_"But one thing in particular has troubled my head ever since the plague—one question that mingles inside me, but refuses to collect its complementary answer. Up to now, I still eagerly await the disclosure:_

_"Why was I the only one that survived?"_

* * *

Night's opaque sky had willingly evaporated as the sun unhurriedly orbited toward the zenith. Concurrently, the sky turned from crimson, gained a tinge of orange, and then changed itself into an azure hue. The weathercast, however, had reported an approaching storm that would wash down the Hungarian capitol, most likely for more than just a day. Rolling toward the populace, dark and menacing clouds growled on the horizon. Right beneath, befogging the purview, a fusillade of rain raged down upon the surface of the Earth, predicating the weathercasters' foretelling. 

A storm was brewing.

Routinely leaving their residences, the older denizens of Budapest were on their way to work, readily chipping in with additional income to their respective families, while most of the children prepared themselves for another boring (or exciting) day at school. The metro beneath the central Fernciek square teemed with activity as commuters stood clustered together, pushing and shoving, waiting impatiently for the commuter train to arrive. Announcing delays and such, a strident voice spoke through the speakers, which was mounted on the perforated tile walls. It was just another ordinary day for the incognizant humans. But for the immortals, however, this would be quite the exceptional day, differing from any other of endless conflict and distress.

Fixedly following the secluded aisles directly beneath the metro station, Selene heard the thundering and shrieking trains and the non-stop din coming from the crowded locale. She glanced up at the ceiling, as though her eyes could penetrate the great clump of concrete and watch the busy commuters from below. _They seem to have recovered from the weaponed conflict that we caused barely a week ago_, she conjectured. Sighing, the vampiress saw that she had most definitely not. Imagining the eye of the intense crossfire, Selene sensed, to her dismay, a ghastly picture evoking to life, imprinting into her memory: a combusting companion gasping in agony on the tiled floor. _This was when Rigel … And even though we never found Nathaniel, the chances of him being alive have been deemed implausible long ago_.

Regarded by many as the deadliest and most efficient vampire soldiers, the triplet had never joined a battle individually. Their minds serving as one, the three Death Dealers had not disagreed at any time during tides of combat. The tactics had remained the same, and each of them had their respective tasks to which they adhered. Rigel, with his seraphic countenance, had been the serene technician and the cunning spy. The oldest of the three, Nathaniel, had proved to be an effective guard, proficient considering surveillance. His task was to make sure no human intervention occurred during a mission. Selene's forte, however, was neither survey nor espionage. Having had Viktor himself as her personal tutor, the deadly serious vampiress was uniquely skilled in hand-to-hand combat as well as with firearms. Unhesitant by nature, she was always the first one to pull the trigger. If there was one vampire that had unsettled business with the lycans, it was most definitely Selene.

Or so they—and she—had been led to believe for a long time.

In spite of the trio's reputation, there were a couple of lycanthropes that had proven themselves even deadlier and more efficient. Now Selene was the only one of the three vampires who was still breathing. _And whose fault is that?_ she asked herself, bitter and mournful. But the answer eluded her, much as it caused dismay.

* * *

Moving furtively about ten meters in front of Selene, Michael was searching every nook and cranny, all of which as obfuscate as the other. He had called the lycans' decomposed hideout to mind and realized that one could never be too careful. If Selene and he were to chance upon a pack of vicious lycans that were superior in number, the Grim Reaper would probably not hesitate to appear. _Unless the lycans would've acted as strangely as the other three did—the ones that 'attacked' us in the safe house._ Michael had not been a trifle convinced by the triplet's actions. Much as he was not an empiric, Michael still knew their behavior did not harmonize with a lycanthrope's general instincts. _Lycans attack together, not individually_, he reasoned with suspicion while scrutinizing yet another dark niche. _Sure, those three _had _a purpose, but it was definitely not to kill us._ However, brooding over this the entire day, Michael thought it better to discuss this with Selene some other time. Neither of them could afford an absence of mind if an ambush were to come about. 

In spite of having the sight of a vampire and the lycanthrope's peerless sense of smell, Michael occasionally noticed deluding figures in the blackness. Their contours were reminiscent of either a vampire's slender figure or the brawny bulk of a lycan, both of which a potential danger to the haunted fugitives. He suspected these delusions were implications of the pain his head was presently enduring. Conjuring the memory of a werewolf sending him reeling head first into a rock-hard wall, Michael only felt the sting amplify. _Maybe I'm suffering from a concussion?_ he wondered, anxious. It felt debilitating in the least. And just for the sake of vexing him even more, a bloody laceration had delved itself into his chest. He exhaled a deep sigh. _I really need to get some rest_.

Accustomed to the darkness, his eyes twitched as he peered through the latticework, which separated this hole from Lajos Street and daily life. Bright light shone through the rusty lattice and down upon the humanoid hybrid. Now and then, the illumination became partly blocked as human pedestrians crossed over the corroded grating.

Michael was curious of whether or not he missed the oblivion of being a human. His former life had been imbued by great risks, the greatest one probably the choice of moving to Hungary to spend his tedious days in the aseptic environs of Budapest's main hospital. After the deprivation of Samantha, his demised love, Michael had felt his vigor and interest in life decrease to a minimum. Now, at the least, having met Selene, his existence had finally begun to gain color anew. On the other hand, his new life, he had to admit, had both its upsides and downsides, but then again, as was the case with everything else.

Not having heard a single word from Selene in the past fifteen minutes, Michael glanced over his shoulder, wondering how she was doing. To his very uncomfortable surprise, however, she was not there. Poring desperately up and down the murky corridor, he perceived the apprehension shutting off all reason. "Selene!" he shouted forlornly, his call echoing against the slivered walls. _Damn it! Where is she? Did anybody take her?_ He repeated his holler, "Selene!"

The ponderous weight on his shoulders lifted as he saw the vampiress round a corner. Looking irritated, she strode hurriedly to where Michael was standing, but was however careful to avoid the light from the sun. "Quiet!" she hissed silently. "Do you have some sort of a death wish?"

"No, I—"

"Hush!" she interrupted his excuse, placing a finger to his lips to accentuate her command. Cocking her head in various directions, she seemed to give full heed to her surroundings. "Did you hear that?" Her brown eyes exhibited worry.

Michael heard nothing. What was she talking—_no, wait!_ He could vaguely but surely hear the sound of shallow water stirring! A stream of some sort could not be causing it, he deduced; the sonance was too unsteady for that. And besides: Michael had not noticed this conspicuous sound before, and nor had Selene apparently. It had just suddenly come along.

The signs were obvious: Someone was in close vicinity, and that someone was approaching.

"Shit! Someone's here," Michael sibilated, fleetly swerving his head so he could see if someone or something was sneaking up behind him. Nobody was there. Then where did the sound come from? The narrow corridor in which they stood rendered it difficult to perceive the origin.

Everything fell silent. Selene frowned, but still managed to uphold her attentiveness. "This cannot be good."

Knowing exactly what she thought, Michael simply had to agree. Silence did not necessarily mean the danger was over. Hell, it could signify otherwise.

A curt snort accompanied by the voice of a male verified their suspicion. "Well, I'll be damned. If it isn't Selene ..."

Both spun around and were met with a harsh light glaring at them.

* * *

Risking a few steps closer, Mason ceased his gait as Selene's au courant tone uttered her warning. "Don't move!" Because of the flashlight, her eyes contracted almost to a shut. Standing beside her, Selene's unfamiliar companion also appeared to have problems seeing. 

Mason could not suppress a short chuckle. "The sewers seem to be crawling with familiarities. First Erika, now you." With a swing of his hand, he tossed the flashlight to the stranger, who, albeit unprepared, caught it resolutely. As he turned the flashlight toward Mason, the Death Dealer felt the cone of light shine upon him.

"Mason!" Selene recognized with eyes wide, sincerely perplexed from the looks of it.

The Death Dealer grinned with satisfaction. "See?" He exposed his empty hands. "No need for hostility." And that regarded himself, as well. _There is no need to play tough_, Mason conceived. Having known the virtuous and devoted Selene for many decades, he knew he had nothing to fear. Throughout their many years of companionship, the two had structured a solid bond of trust between themselves.

"Now," he said, preceding Selene's response. "Before you even start to test my trustfulness, I feel the need to say that I _do _believe you."

* * *

His tone was convincing. Uncertain as she was, Selene had trouble finding the correct reaction and reply to Mason's straightforwardness. It was a bit odd, but considering it more closely, the vampiress had to admit he had been wise when showing such behavior. The Elders knew what she and Michael would have done to him if his conduct had inferred a more antagonistic inclination. It could of course be the other way around, and that this was a deceptive trick, but Selene seriously doubted that. One of the most reasonable and trustworthy vampires she had ever known, Mason would at least hear her out before doing anything drastic. But even so, one thing seemed quite illogical to Selene. Why the hell was he here in the sewers? And why alone? 

"Where are your inferiors?" she asked, unable to inhibit a trifle of suspicion in her tenor.

A slanted smile crossed the Death Dealer's face, something Selene interpreted to be a possible indication of bitterness. "They scattered when Marcus deemed it was time to dispose of those that did not concur on his actions."

She did not understand. "His actions?"

"To unify the Coven and the lycans."

Selene's eyes peeled open at the retort. _What! _She could not believe what she had heard. Had the Coven really begun negotiations and found a possible way to attain peace? Maybe Marcus already was conscious of Viktor's strong influence on the centurial war! Perhaps her and Michael's persuasion was not needed after all? Selene had become filled with exaltation, only to witness it diminish as swiftly as it had appeared. _Vampires and lycans have joined together_, she repeated to herself in order to become fully aware of this astonishing fact. _But even so they wanted to kill Michael and me … Opal told us it was Marcus who had sent her. And it was probably he who dispatched those lycans, too_.

"Look," Michael interjected and turned off the flashlight. "It may sound out of the question to you, but joining the lycans might not be a bad—"

Suddenly appearing from a dim corner and coming to stand beside Mason, a man, whom Selene was certain she never had seen before, interrupted Michael's speech. The stranger's locks—long, and brown and black in color—cooperated with the darkness of the tunnel, rendering the upper portion of his face concealed. Selene could notwithstanding discern that this was no vampire. With all their prominence, sharp jugal bones jutted out of the lean frame of his face, forming somewhat of a seraphic countenance. His lean facial features were a stark contrast to the rest of his physique, which was considerably brawny and athletic. Marking a dully gilded insignia fastened in a metal chain about the stranger's neck, she suddenly remembered Sonja's pendant, which was clinging to her own. Clutching it tightly, she continued to observe the stranger from a safe distance.

"I've sent two on patrol," the man informed, turned toward Mason. "Hopefully, the reconnaissance will establish our safety."

Mason showed his acknowledgement by nodding firmly. "Good."

Creeping up Selene's nostrils, a familiar scent, which priorly would have turned her into a state of alarm, gave now rise to a breathtaking perplexity instead. Slowly, she became aware of her discovery. _Hold! This is not a human! It's—_

"A lycan!" a flabbergasted Michael exclaimed, as if reading Selene's thoughts.

"What's wrong?" Mason smiled confidently. "Allying ourselves with the lycans is a good idea. You said so yourself, didn't you?"

Becoming graver in appearance, Michael turned silent.

For the first time since the fortuitous encounter, Mason had his eyes completely on Michael. "Now, who are you anyway?"

"First, tell us who that lycan is," Selene quickly threw in, taking a couple of steps toward the two, so she got their attention once again.

The unknown lycan locked eyes with the vampiress. "Stop conversing as though I lacked the intelligence to speak," he said, somewhat irritated. Bowing, he introduced himself: "I am Jakob Corvinus."

Michael recoiled as he heard the easily recognizable name. "Corvinus!" he whispered to himself.

"Then you must be a true-born!" Selene supplemented in awe.

He nodded. "Yes, of lycan descent."

Mason stepped out from the shadows. "As you may have already grasped, my group of Death Dealers and I didn't leave Ordoghaz because of the junction alone; it was merely the purpose of it. Marcus clearly never acted by way of peaceful intentions. He has turned the lycans' dispersal to his advantage.

"The lycans' discord happened exactly the same way as ours did. After both the lycans and we lost our respective leaders, disputes were unavoidable. Internal conflicts lead to sudden changes, and now they have turned the tide in this conflict entirely. Before we knew it, genetic dissimilarities seemed to matter no more. However, despite these new alliances, I believe contempt is still mingling among us participants, causing tendency to waver …"

All the impartations cascaded upon Selene, who now suddenly realized that her and Michael's solitude had not exactly been of great benefit to them. This surge of information reminded her of the aftermath of her turning in 1588—when Viktor had divulged the deepest of secrets to her. Having had great problems understanding the bizarreness at that time, Selene thought this apperception to be just as difficult to attain. All the antipathy that had abode between the two strains for centuries past was now cast aside as if never being of any importance.

Puzzled beyond salubrity, she was beginning to think that Mason's explanations only amplified her bewilderment. But even so, he had at the least clarified something. _So that's how the lycans knew of our hideout_, Selene perceived. _Marcus's Death Dealers had most likely sent off a messenger before they attacked us that night. And knowing our approximate position, those lycans merely needed to sniff us out_. A thing the lycanthropes were notoriously efficient at.

* * *

Michael, still fraught with doubt, held his distance. They did know of Marcus being a hybrid—the blending of the species … did they not? Or was that still as secluded from the public eye as his own secret was? From his wise of speaking, however, this Mason was clearly not showing much respect—so much was clear. But was that by reason of Marcus's intents, Michael wondered, or solely the Elder's transmutation? The latter was highly unlikely, but still that being the case, it _was_ a possibility. And as long as such a chance existed, it meant that Michael could cause further impedimenta to Selene and him. _And that's just what we need_,_ isn't it?_ he thought sarcastically. 

"But still, this lycan here …" Mason continued his explanation, treading backwardly to where Jakob stood and putting a hand on the werewolf's shoulder. "This one somehow … convinced me. And when the two of us reunite those that managed to elude Marcus, he and I will do our level best to sway them. Hopefully, finding our comrades won't be that much of an effort; my team and I had already suspected Marcus and the Coven of plotting to send us out on our ears—or, at worst, kill us. Therefore we thought it best to arrange a rendezvous in case our suspicions would prove right and an escape would be our only chance of survival. Three of my Death Dealers were unfortunately not at the mansion at that time, and so they never got the message … never knew of our suspicions, which in time, turned out to be true …" Mason sighed as he stared aimlessly at the cracked ground for a moment, but he managed to get back his senses.

"Only a couple of hours ago, I sent two of my most entrusted Death Dealers—Cain and Bryce—to lead the rendezvous, which are to be held inside one of the desolate buildings in northern Pest—the ones next to Szent István park. It will probably take about a day before they get back with the rest of the Death Dealers. But when they do, I have to say that I'm quite uncertain of how they will react to this little confederation of ours."

"I am sure they will understand," Jakob succored, "as my wolfen comrades seem to have."

Studying the humanoid lycan's crystal-blue orbs, Michael could not discern any hints of deceptiveness. This leader of the Death Dealers, this Mason, had not exactly fully expounded how that lycan had convinced him. But then; the hybrid himself fathomed, by some means, why Mason had not. Unable to define it, Michael realized there was something about this lycan—something he had not seen before—which exhibited that he could be trusted. Perhaps it was simply his lax composure, or his way of speaking. It was as though his entirety, despite scarcely showing a nonchalant tendency, was saturated with sincerity and beneficence. In addition, Jakob's second name had in some way remotely contributed to the convincement.

_Corvinus_.

But still … something was not quite right.

A time of silence made Mason change the subject. "So," he said gravely, inhaling a deep breath. "Where are you off to?"

Michael looked toward Selene, whose face, if eyes served, appeared almost to redden in shame because of her uncertainty. "Well, we haven't had much choice, really," she replied soberly. "We've been in hiding for almost a week, now, still actively searching for acceptance. Both lycans and Death Dealers have attempted to kill us, but so far, we've eluded them." Her brows knitted together, which Michael knew denoted trepidation. "But Marcus will never give up. I know. He won't stop before he achieves his retribution."

Cocking his head slightly, Mason queried, "And what's that?"

"The death of Michael and me," she retorted laconically.

Mason grazed his cheeks to and fro with a black-gloved hand, probably weighing Selene's statement in his mind. Michael did not know if Selene had rendered their chances any greater—or if she had lessened them. This Death Dealer had turned out to be a tough nut to crack, and so had Jakob Corvinus. But the humanoid hybrid relied on his lover, and in as much as she had not turned tail from this abrupt encounter, Michael surmised that peril was out of harm's way.

"Please, come with us," Mason requested, reaching out his hand and turning partly. "We'll take you to our hideout. I assure you that you have both Jakob's and my admittance."

"No, we can't," Michael said abruptly, noticing both Selene and Mason—even Jakob—become surprised by his sudden interjection. "If we go with you, Marcus won't hesitate to kill you, too."

Jakob shrugged callously. "It does not matter. Marcus's hesitation is nonextant either way. And moreover, I doubt that killing you two is his sole objective."

"Now, we insist that you come," Mason stated, smiling in his friendly manner. "Isolation has no purpose. Our views on this war seem to agree, and thus we should take sides in order to counteract Marcus's intentions. I guarantee that you can leave us at any time if you wish so. All I'm asking you is that you give yourselves the chance to live." He now turned fully around and began sauntering away from the site, quickly followed by Jakob. "And besides," the Death Dealer added, glancing over his shoulder. "Your so-called treachery intrigues me, Selene."

Locking eyes with each other, Michael and Selene exchanged deadly serious looks.

* * *

"_To my great relief, clouds and mist have evaporated as bemusing thoughts now begin to converge into a gratifying coherence. The delirium is finally diminishing, and for that I am grateful. Through this immaterial dimension in which I have resided in utter seclusion for centuries, I have come to see that someone has requested my conclusive disposition._

"_My finality._

"_At first, I could not comprehend the confusing message. Consisting of chaotic thoughts and memories, it was quite the enigma. What was I supposed to do? What was expected from me? I began considering a bitter relinquishment, but the moment before my resignation was made real, the true essence of the message revealed itself forthwith. Never thinking such a plea existed, I was both terrified and astonished when this request entered my chains of memories—which the revised Apocrypha have named 'memories of blood' or simply 'blood memories'. A quite fitting name, I might add, and hence it is a pity that it is so unrenowned. Because, as widely known, the loss of blood implicates death. However, as ironical as it sounds, the _gain_ of blood can also cause death. Many deaths—if destiny seeks it. Contrary to the former, the reason for this latter phenomenon is of the more implicit kind. Blood can breed menace, I assure you. And that I will demonstrate in good time._

"_Ah, once again the continuum chisels in. Even though time has deprived me of milestones and other supplementary events of great importance, I now know our past regardless. And for that I have one person to thank. His secret studies, his eavesdropping, and his life in total have bestowed me_ _with priceless lore. Experiencing nearly two millennia in a timeless fashion, I realize that fate is not mistaken: Immortality will never find its concurrence. Before the days of strife, there was a state of great promise between the two descendants, but when war commenced, it ravaged all hope. Hope which ever since has not experienced its rebirth. And as I watch the collection of horrible intentions perilously exceed my allowance, hope will still rest in its grave._

_"Life and time is doubtless in need of my intervention. This cannot continue; this must end. And because time alone has failed to succeed, a stronger entity must be let loose. All I ask is that time is willing to cooperate … because yes, there exists a more stalwart force—a more justifying and fatal one. It is the power to create life, and the power to end life. Sent by and serving the very destiny, it patiently awaits its redemption. Fate no longer wants my chains of memories to last forever. In fact, if my interpretations are correct, then fate purposes to eradicate all eternality. The striving immortality is the very manifestation confirming its unquestionable need of oblivion._

_"It is time for the Arcanum to see its break of day, come hell and high water. 'Digging into the past is forbidden for a reason.' I now fathom why this statement is so genuinely true. Thank you, Kraven; it appears you have misinterpreted the mecca of yore. Without knowing it, you have brought about the greatest and most decisive intrusion of all._

_"And now that my Awakening is at hand, my chains of memories will finally be fractured, similar to the shatter of the chains that have kept me confined in this dismal grave for centuries."_

* * *

10 hours later. 

No longer in the capitol of England, Kraven and Rex had taken the first plane that was bound for Hungary. This little detour had cost Kraven his last savings; after all, it was not as though he was made of money. Or, rather, he may have been in his more sybaritic days, but now he was no richer than a pauper—a fact he profoundly abhorred. Accumulating the money for the London trip by exchanging his ornaments for hard cash, he was experiencing economical limits, which he could not tolerate much longer. This disgusting poverty would soon change. In good time, Rex and he would introduce a new player to these little games, which would be anything but a disadvantage to the two. _And that good time is now_, Kraven settled with confidence. _All we need is to find that placard._

Brushing through tall and wet straws that reached up to their hips, Kraven and Rex were crossing a great marchland and approached the remnants of a preexisting hamlet, which was in the fifth century called Temesvár. After a sudden plague in the remote past, however, this little village had ever since lain in ruins. Human archeologists had investigated the desolate remainders long since, and Kraven remembered they actually had defined the plague as being redolent of the Black Death. But as opposed to the latter epidemic, this catastrophe had felt its boundaries reasonably fast, and thus the plague had fortunately been quite limited. Albeit glad because of the limitations, the human archeologists had nonetheless expressed sympathy toward the victims of this horrendous calamity.

_But what about the one person who survived it?_ _What then about your sympathies, humans?_ Kraven asked scornfully in his mind, snorting in disgust as Rex and he trudged through the last parts of the marchland and reached a plain of sere grass. Lambent stars dotted a pitch-dark sky, gleaming down on a vast plain on which vestiges from a previously active village lay scattered.

"I'm not sure if I'm gonna' like this," Rex said in a muttering manner. Two shovels were fastened on his sinewy back. "Do we really know how he'll react and what he'll do?"

Kraven squatted down on his knees and glanced at the open surroundings, as if looking for something. "Trust me, there is nothing to worry about," he said reassuringly and picked up a small rock. Holding it before his eyes, he began regarding it thoroughly. "When he awakens from his forced extrication, he will thank us for giving back his freedom." As he callously let the rock slip from his fingers and down to the withered soil, the ex-regent sniffed the air, sensing the fresh and provocative fragrance—cooled by the chilly night—fortifying him and polishing his ambition. _We are surely getting closer …_

Passing a big pile of stone blocks that once constituted a humble dwelling, Kraven and the thuggish ruffian noted in the mid of the wrecked hamlet a small structure, which had evidently refused to give way to the decay of time. Although it had escaped utter sundering, there was only the very fundament that stood its ground still. But the gray stone walls, cracked to the extreme, did not hinder Kraven's observing in any wise; the démodé architecture, formerly an attempt to diverge from the concurrent mode, had, if his memory served, never been used later on. Or Kraven, at the least, had not come upon similar compositions in present time. And he knew there was a reason for that, as well.

By reason of the unnamed calamity that killed nearly the entire populace of Temesvár, religions immediately thought the villagers' beliefs to be a sure defiance toward the true gods. The so-called fraudulent gods—whom these villagers worshiped—were said to be the many souls of the Devil. However, a mere postulate, this 'fact' should be taken with a grain of salt. Nonetheless, religion proclaimed that the prayers uttered from the inhabitants of Temesvár had sent the village into a most precarious position. And when the dwellers even devised a new type of architecture to express their worship toward their own gods, it was now beyond question; the villagers had dug their own graves. After which, the architecture, which previously pervaded Temesvár, had never been used by others, as they all had feared a destiny similar to these villagers.

"He's not here," Kraven said, informing the roughneck beside him. The ex-regent's black mane and dark shirt fluttered vividly as a current of air streamed playfully from the east. "The Apocrypha says he is 'sealed on the fringes of vast'." _Now where the hell is that?_ he wondered, tightening his lips in aggravation. _These damned 'fringes' cover an enormous area. And time is against us; we can't afford this minute scrutiny._

"Let's split up," Rex advised and commenced his slow roundtrip toward the northern parts of the open plain. "Then we'll use less time. Remember: We need to get back before sunrise."

Kraven needed not to be reminded of that fact; he knew this was literary like playing with fire. But there was no way he was going to die in such a degrading way. _My coup d'état has yet to come to fruition_, he thought with a glint in his eyes. If either he or Rex—or both—died this night, his ambitions would evaporate, too. … And that was not allowed to happen.

"Might as well get started …" he mumbled, swallowing his words intentionally. Much as he had been in a beggar's shoes for almost a week and a half, this new life would simply not gratify his desires and needs. God, he felt like a human! However, the ex-regent vowed that this pitiful life would soon come to an end.

Fleetly veering his head to his left and right by turns, Kraven combed every straw of grass, checked beneath every rock—both small and large. This search, however, seemed near to counterproductive as he felt like he was scrutinizing the same sear straw and the same rock over and over—an observance which really was anything but encouraging. _This can't be right_, he suspected, checking another piece of stone.

Nothing there.

He sighed profoundly and cursed under his breath. This was certainly not leading anywhere. Perhaps he had misconceived that paragraph in the Apocrypha? Or maybe the text was much more symbolic than he had initially assumed? Even so, it was too late to check on that now; the book that contained the most primeval of stories was safely stored within the unfrequented library of Ordoghaz, and if no radical changes had occurred since his exile, Viktor or Marcus—or whoever administered the mansion for the present—would undoubtedly see to it that Ordoghaz was being as strong and sure as Castle Corvinus itself. Due to the revelation of his and Lucian's secret conspiracy, the war was probably enduring an escalating intensity, as well—especially after Selene's hopeless infatuation with that Michael, a lycan, or whatever he had become. What had happened to that mutt anyway? Had he survived? Because of Viktor's most untimely appearance, Kraven had been compelled to leave the underworld, and hence the question remained unanswered to him.

Another rock.

Nothing.

"Shit!" the ex-regent exclaimed furiously, skying the piece of stone with his foot. Respiring heavily, he watched it tumble purposelessly away from him. A bead of sweat dribbled down his brow. Sensing it, he wiped it off with his sleeve. "This damned story! It's probably no more than a second-rate—"

"Hey! Kraven!" Rex shouted from afar. "I found something here!"

Glancing up from the ground and peering toward the distant sound, Kraven saw the vampire thug wave his hand, beckoning for him to come over. "What is it?" the ex-regent responded, exclaiming.

"It's that sign you were talking about! You know, the letter 'A'!"

Alleviationgushed out of Kraven in torrents as Rex bestowed him with this superlatively thrilling information. _Finally!_ he thought vigorously. Smirking in a cunning manner, he began to walk over to where Rex had discovered their goal for tonight. It was quite the long way, but just then, a gust of wind surged past him and readily incited the ex-regent's gait toward the thug. Someone or something wished for this discovery to take place.

"Nicely done, my friend!" Kraven cried loudly. "Just start digging!"

_Just start digging …_

* * *

What botheration that damned Mason had proven to be! Who really wanted to obey such ridiculous commands? And even to think of defying Lord Marcus! Once devoted to the Coven, this undertaking 'leader' of the Death Dealers had now become corrupt, depraved, and most important of all, a betrayer! His behavior and actions were exceeding every possible boundary of morality, and for that he would be condemned to a most unpleasing sunbath! Yes, Lord Marcus would see to that. 

Descending a beauteously embellished case of stairs, still remembering the looks of relief from all the vampire aristocrats as he had entered the main hall, Cain was on his way down to the Chamber of Elders. Two Death Dealers, a couple of meters in front of him, conducted the ebon vampire through the great complex of Ordoghaz. It was not needed, however; Cain knew the mansion exceedingly well. But throughout the years, this guidance had become more of a customary act of showing respect toward their guests rather than a mere necessity. In any case, Cain did not have anything against this solemnity—especially not after that ingenious act of his. He reached a state of ecstasy just thinking about it.

_The disappearance could not have been performed any better!_ he thought gleefully. The congregation, the lycan intervention—everything! He had played his part very well. Having put on an authentic masque, he had acted as though being utterly dumbfounded by the lycans' intrusion. But in spite of appearance, Cain had always known they would appear; after all, this was an essential part of his very evanescence. And it had worked perfectly well. The last thing the treacherous clique of Death Dealers had seen was his lone confrontation with a lethal pack of lycans in a narrow hallway. No one could in reality survive an assailment of such power. And for as much as they would never see him again, they would presuppose he was dead. Something he certainly was not. He had never been this alive before!

Now, as he trod downward toward the heart of the mansion, Cain could simply not wait to impart the vital information. He knew everything—the traitors' feeble and pathetic hideout, their junction with that trifling pack of lycanthropes, what Lord Marcus needed to do in order to gain the most efficient preemptive strike. Yes, absolutely everything! And this information, when told to his Lord, would most definitely give rise to their victory.

"He is waiting," one of the Death Dealers said as the two vampiric soldiers of war stepped to their respective sides of a double door. The portal was plainly a peerless exemplar of the elegant Baroque architecture. Studying the dark, symmetrical patterns and the intricate door handles that formed two vicious snakes, Cain fathomed this was Ordoghaz's very core. His Lord—standing by behind these doors—was presumably already aware of his coming and anticipated fresh knowledge of the war. And as the double doors slowly glided open, Cain was confident of fulfilling his Lord's expectations. _Exceedingly confident_, he thought and stepped inside.

* * *

Still as dark as the underworld, the sky had yet to become illumed by the igneous sun, and Kraven was sincerely pleased with that. The soil had been surprisingly easy to dig up, and accompanied with Rex's muscles, the excavation had nearly taken no time, much to his relief. 

_2:43 P.M._, Kraven saw as he peeked at his wristwatch. Concurrently, he noticed, to his disgust, blotches of dirt smeared all over his shirt. It was not the most expensive garment, but regardless of that, Kraven still detested being unclean. And even worse: This hard work had drenched his face and apparels with sticky perspiration. He felt the disgusting sensation of wet cloth glued to his body. This was certainly not in accordance with a vampire's elegance and grace—an accordance that he at all times used to maintain. Seldom did he deplete himself of his strength, but as a great turning point was just around the corner, Kraven could tolerate a few humilities. Much as it was contrary to his epicurean way of living, it seemed he needed to undergo degradation before he could exult in glory. And as he was nearing the end of all humiliation and neglect, the thought of knowing that everything would soon change soothed his soul and urged him onward.

Shining with excitement, Kraven's eyes were clamped upon the very ambition that he had strived so hard to realize. Lips parted and fangs were bared as he beamed an expansive smirk at Rex. "Here he is! The one that will stem the tide of disgrace!"

Rex's blunt expression evinced uncertainness, but that was in no way going to stop Kraven's exaltation. _He will understand when he sees the implications of my plan with his own eyes_, Kraven thought, determined. _And when he is convinced, he will comply with my every action_. His orbs gained a tint of azure as tension grew inside him. Sticky and wet tufts of black hair adhered to his glinting forehead, and together with an extreme visage of triumph, they made him look like a complete lunatic.

_Now! _he thought zealously, threw away his spade, and leapt into the one and a half meter deep pit, which the two vampires had created in barely half an hour. _It is time that you awake!_

The Apocrypha was right; a great myth proved to be real! The moment he had waited for so long! It was now! Now! Nothing could prevent him! This was _his _day—_his _victory, not anyone else's! Poverty and chagrin would crumble, whereas wealth and power would advance! And the first implication of his ascendance, he vowed, would without doubt be the demise of Selene and that pestering Michael. And after that, it would be Viktor's turn.

With eyes wide, Kraven stared at an imposing coffin, which lay partially covered in dirt. Hammered in the lid was a stone placard into which a decorative _A_ was engraved. He shivered with joy as he took notice of the purposeful letter, and he realized he could not wait any longer.

"Rex! Get down here!" he demanded, the smirk still etching his face.

Obeying instantly, the vampiric thug jumped down to the bottom of the cavity. His eyes were contracted, which Kraven recalled from their earlier relationship to be a sign of befuddlement. _Don't worry, my friend. This will surely enlighten you_.

"Now, help me with this," the ex-regent requested and pointed at the lid. "We must see about his condition."

Nodding, Rex walked over to one side of the coffin, while Kraven, squatting down, prepared to lift the other. A lot of muscular power was required to remove this lid, and Kraven realized he was now relieved to see that Rex stood by him. Without him, his scheme would be an impossible one. _Thank the gods that I didn't blow my physical strength out of proportion!_ he thought.

"Okay … One, two, three—lift!" Kraven said laboriously as he used the last remnants of energy he had left to lift the heavy chunk. He regarded Rex while they slowly carried the heavy stone cover over to the side. Annoyingly enough, the crude ruffian's expression—free of contortions—did not give away a hint of strain. His own, he imagined, was probably distorted past recognition. No ordinary human could have lifted a cover of this ponderous weight, so how in the Elders' name was it brought here in the first place? Pondering the confusing question, Kraven gnashed his teeth as he bit the bullet as best he could. Only one foot away now …

With some help from gravity, the lid dug itself into the earth, implicating a loud clump. Instantly, Kraven gasped for fresh air as his lungs ached for their precious fuel. _Damnation, this was not what I had in mind!_ Wheezing, he studied Rex, who trudged over to the coffin to see what the container had enclosed for centuries. Just one single drop of sweat trickled down the thug's tanned temples. This brute's life among the dumpsters in London had seemingly conserved his burly physique. Although evidently more able-bodied than a mere human, Kraven had nonetheless lost a lot of his physical strength by reason of his own daily self-indulgences, which were not exactly imbued with strenuous work such as this. He vaguely reviewed the days of his life as a Death Dealer. Snorting with a smug look on his mucky face, the ex-regent was glad he chose a different route of ascending, as that one had been too lengthy and tedious. Muscular power was Kraven's forte no longer; cunningness was. And the establishment of that fact was right before him! Here—in this coffin …

"Kraven, there's somethin' you need to see here …" Rex said, his voice still lacking certitude.

Kraven's azure eyes gazed at the ruffian with interest. _This isn't like Rex_, he discerned, perplexed. _What of that confidence you showed me back in England?_ _What have happened?_

Having undone a black woolen wrapping, which presumptively had coated the interior of the sarcophagus, Rex laid his worried eyes on what was revealed.

_Could it be?_ Kraven wondered, perceiving tension still growing. Sluggishly, he trod over to Rex and the coffin. Was this his moment of triumph? The moment when this intolerable demotion would finally end?

Slowly but surely, as Kraven approached with an eagle eye, the interior revealed itself. Within the sarcophagus, a gray-bearded man rested silently. Semi-long silvery thatches of hair, befitting a regal goatee in the same color, covered his scalp and most of his ears. Pure, white cloth—untainted by the dirt in which he had resided—sanctified the recumbent man, who was still reposing peacefully in his tomb. His arms, reclining on his chest, clung to an ivory tablet into which was inscribed the repetitive _A_, and below, it said:

_Cruento corpus delicti._

"Blood the body," Kraven translated ecstatically. _This is just like an Awakening!_ he penetrated, becoming more and more enlightened with each passing second. This visage had been exactly similar to the depictions in the Apocrypha. Or … maybe not exactly. Kraven had to concede that something struck him as quite odd. Following an ordinary Awakening—such as the Awakenings of the Covenant—was the sight of utter emaciation and putrefaction. Usually, hibernating vampires both smelled and had the look of death. And in theory, they _were_ dead. But contrary to mortals, vampires could be awoken. Even though their extreme leanness made as if the slightest touch could diffuse them to ashen remnants, the awoken vampires would eventually reconstruct their former strength and become the strong immortals they once were. However, as it was known through reason, their diluted state, which usually subsisted for two days, rendered them extremely vulnerable. But this man, lying tranquilly in the coffin in front of Kraven, was not the slightest macerated, nor did his being display any weakness. In fact, Kraven noticed with astonishment, the man's white features nearly flared with divinity and authority. From the looks of it, the whole fifteen centuries of hibernation had done absolutely nothing to his countenance and body.

"Why the _hell_'s he in this perfect condition?" Rex inquired, his bewilderment causing a dawning aggravation. He, too, had apparently noticed the queer sight. "The guy's supposed to look dead!" he bellowed, repeatedly pointing at the unconscious man with both his hands. "Now he looks like a freakin' Sleeping Beauty! What does those damned books tell you about this, Kraven?"

"Relax!" the ex-regent snapped and raised a flat hand to forestall additional complaints. "The Apocrypha never mentioned this phenomenon, but what's it to you? As long as he can rise anew and pose the threat that we require, this inexplicable paradox should mean nothing to me—nor to you!"

A deep frown had long since wrenched Rex's Caucasian features. His body stirred scarcely, showing that he was uncertain of what to do. Kraven guessed that great predicaments mingled inside the thug's head right now, but the ex-regent decided not to give away any compassion. This was Rex's choice alone.

"So," Kraven continued, hearing the thunder bawling fiercely in the distance. "Are you in, or are you out?" A couple of glacial-blue eyes glared at the thug, who returned the relentless stare. Thunder roared and lightning emitted brief flashes as the two vampires were locking horns.

A prolonged growl greeted Kraven, who wondered where it came from—the menacing overcast or Rex's throat? He suddenly realized this conflict in which he participated could result in a most inopportune death. His death. There was no way his strength surpassed Rex's, so if a fight were to occur, the thug's victory would be a mere matter of course. Nonetheless, Kraven vowed that he would unleash one hell of a climax before his fall.

But to his surprise and relief, Rex took a step backward and leveled an indicative hand at the coffin. "Okay," he said grimly. "Do it."

Still shocked by the unpredictable outcome that had come like a bombshell, Kraven bide his time, but eventually nodded in comprehension. Then, slowly striding over to where the coffin and the hibernating man lay secluded, he pulled up the sleeves of his black shirt, disclosing his bare hands. Hesitating slightly, he sensed Rex's cold and adamant stare gazing at him. But not two seconds later, he managed to regain his composure. _Pull yourself together! _he scolded himself. _This needs to be done. And whatever happens to the others, you for one know your future regardless. Your future is sealed—finalized!_

Raising his right arm to his mouth, Kraven let his fangs dig deeply into his own flesh. The taste of his own blood, making his mouth water, awoke the vampire inside him. He stared at his severe wound and the crimson blood that gushed out of it. Placing his injured hand right above the man's mouth, he used the other hand to part the dormant jaws. Spewing blood drooped from Kraven's gash until gravity finally managed to yank it into the stranger's mouth. While the blood dribbled, Kraven spotted four elongated fangs, which clearly exceeded the conventional length of human teeth. He grinned craftily at the sight.

The trifle of hesitation that had hindered him not long ago quickly evaporated, and now sureness had substituted. _This is meant to happen! _he thought deliriously, looking up at the night sky. _My deepest of desires are about to become realized!_

Just then, clawed fingers of behemothic strength, surpassing the swiftness of lightning, crushed Kraven's dreams as they violently clutched about his jugular. Gritting his teeth in agony, the ex-regent caught hold of the hand that threatened to squeeze the life out of him. He desperately tried to release himself from the tight grip, but he was unable to compete against the unbending force of the Arcanum. Glancing downward while the anguish intensified inside of him, Kraven watched in horror at a face that was completely calm, with the exception of two all-consuming eyes—jet-black—that nearly pierced his soul.

"Kraven!" Rex shouted behind him. Picking up the shovel next to himself, he ran over to the coffin, and with all his preternatural power, the thug cocked the tool before swinging it at the enemy.

The bash did not precede the crazed stranger's agility, however. Impeding the assailment by grabbing the hilt of the spade, the man released the deathly grip around Kraven's neck and instead began focusing on Rex, who could do nothing.

Coughing loudly, Kraven could scantily witness the horrendous sight of cold blood spurting in every direction, followed by Rex's gory carcass as it toppled to the muddy ground with a thud.

_W—what on Earth …?_ Kraven thought, aghast. His mind was not yet aware of his companion's abrupt decease. Looking up in horrification, he saw the imposing man who was eyeing him in a pitiless manner. God, his aspects were even more imperious than Lord Viktor's!

With a steady gait, the menacing man approached Kraven, who instinctively began to back away. "No, don't! I promise!" the ex-regent croaked in panic. "I promise I won't stop your cause!"

Thunderbolts ravaged about the cavity as the rain started cascading upon everyone and everything in the vicinity—including the ivory tablet, which lay completely abandoned in the soil. Wet dirt and fresh blood covered the Latin writings, rendering them undecipherable, but nothing could preclude the elaborate _A_—thoroughly engraved into the off-white—from exposing itself to the oblivious world.

* * *

Hours had passed as the group of four immortals—Selene, Michael, Mason, and Jakob—descended deeper into the tunnels beneath the capitol of Hungary, stillen routeto the hideout. Once secret storage rooms for the Russians, these places had been forgotten after the Soviet suppression. Old supplies, abandoned when Budapest got back its independence, lay scattered all over, something the small denizens living in the sewers seemed to appreciate greatly; incessant peeps and chirps sounded everywhere, but as the four moved through the passageways, Selene could not find a single one of those pesky, little rats. 

Deciding to neglect the vexing brats, she found herself considering the lycan—Jakob—who was trudging beside her. His appearance was as nonchalant as it had been ever since Michael and she had happened upon him. In point of fact, as unpleasant as it was, neither Mason nor Jakob had said much since the encounter. And Michael was also being unusually silent.

Selene sighed. _I guess I'm the one that has to break the ice_. Once again, she took notice of the pendant that clung to Jakob's neck. Now that she was considerably closer than last time, she could read the single letter closed in by the round, dull metal piece. Although the query was beyond all reason, Selene could not resist asking it:

"You knew Amelia?"

Startled at her sudden question, Jakob cocked his eyebrows in surprise. "Amelia?"

"The dead Elder."

The lycan, seemingly disliking eye contact, turned his head and looked ahead of himself again. "I have heard her name plenty, and I know whom she was, but I have not seen her in person, no." He brushed away the locks from his face. "Now why do you ask such a question?"

Adrenaline pumping inside her, Selene realized this was the very first conversation she had had with a lycan—ever. Of course, she had pried out information of lycan subjects of interrogation, and she had talked to Michael before, as well. But notwithstanding, this was a bit different. Having nearly bumped into him during one of her numerous hunting missions, Selene had met Michael when he still had been a human. Trust had grown between them _before_ the American was hurled into the clandestine strife.

"Well, your medallion," she nodded indicatively toward Jakob's chest. "It says _A_."

Grabbing the insignia, the lycan looked at it attentively. "Oh, that. It is not an abbreviation for Amelia, if that was what you were thinking."

"Then what does it mean?"

"It is simply the initial of my father's first name."

"And who's your father?" Selene, asking all these questions, felt almost like one of those annoying human reporters, who simply would not back off. But leaving that aside, she still somehow knew that this knowledge would be of great importance to her.

Jakob, falling silent, appeared to hesitate a bit, but he finally brought forth the hair-raising words:

"Alexander Corvinus."

* * *

Author's note: Well then, it seems that the origin itself never really died (I wonder, did anyone get that before I revealed it?). Hopefully, everyone understood this little cliffhanger—for both your and my own sake. Anyway, this was the last chapter of _Seperation_, the first part of a total of three. Now, a three-sided war will continue to rage on in the second part, _Unification_, which will then be followed by the part that will bring everything to a conclusion, namely _Devastation_. I don't know when I will be starting on the second part, but I believe it won't take that much time. But before I begin on the next, though, I'll check on the chapters that I've already written—just for the purpose of revising some parts. Nonetheless, I hope the promise of future plot twists tempts you to continue reading my story. And if _you_, for some weird reason, actually want more of this, then please say so in a review. I promise you, it will unquestionably incite me to write more—and faster. 


End file.
